


The Strangers We Keep: The Glory of a Good Pounding

by for_autumn_i_am



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Anal Sex, Attempt at Humor, Canon Compliant, Cock Worship, Crack Treated Seriously, Fix-It of Sorts, Frottage, Glory Hole, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oblivious Lt Edward Little, Oral Sex, POV Multiple, Pre-Canon, Sextants But Make it Sexy, Size Kink, Stranger Sex, This One is for Terror_Exe: Shakespeare References, Very Patient Thomas Jopson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:34:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27897637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/for_autumn_i_am/pseuds/for_autumn_i_am
Summary: There’s a glory hole onHMS Terror.Or: five times Joplittle hook up anonymously, and one time they stop fooling around.
Relationships: Thomas Jopson/Lt Edward Little
Comments: 111
Kudos: 110
Collections: The Terror Bingo (2020)





	1. Edward

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt fill for my Terror bingo square "humour"
> 
> Please refer to the end notes for content warnings!

“A hole?” Sir John asks.

“I’m afraid so, sir,” Irving explains, horribly pale. “I happened upon it by chance in the hold examining the coal rooms as Lieutenant Little and I took stock. It struck me as rather unusual, for it seemed clearly man-made: perfectly round, the edges smooth. Lieutenant Little made a humorous remark on its position. I asked him to explain himself, which led to the discovery of the abominable function of this vulgar hole.”

All eyes in the great cabin turn to Edward. He feels his face flush and trains his gaze on his empty cup. The blush only deepens as Jopson steps up to him to refill it, soundless, discreet, so only the pouring of the tea is heard. Edward flinches when Sir John inquires, “Well? Would you care to share what remark you made, Lieutenant?”

“A tasteless one,” Edward hastens to dismiss it; he clears his throat, tries to keep his hand still so Jopson won’t spill on his account. “I am awfully sorry, sir,” he adds when Sir John gestures to him to go on. “I may have mentioned it was in an ‘ideal position.’ Lieutenant Irving did not catch my meaning, therefore I pointed out that for a man of average height, the hole would be—pardon me—in the general area of, well, his groin.”

Jopson, hovering over his shoulder still, makes a choked-off sound. Sir John looks at a loss. “Is the hole in question is some sort of, ah, unsanctioned privy then?”

“I regret to say that is not what Lieutenant Little implied,” Irving forces out. He’s slouched over in his seat, as if bearing the burden of this salacious secret is far too heavy for him.

Edward regrets making that remark a thousand times over. Regrets finding that damn hole, regrets familiarising himself with similar holes on _Vindictive_ , regrets all of it, but most of all, he regrets that he’s being interrogated within Jopson’s earshot.

It’s just his luck, to be so thoroughly humiliated in the company of a man he cares about, this perfect angel who now knows how boorish Edward can be; who might realise that his friendly approach on the journey so far has been far from innocuous; indeed, that he’s been testing the waters, so to say, for Jopson is perfectly to his taste.

“Please explain yourself then, Lieutenant Little,” Sir John proposes with an encouraging smile. Edward is close to perishing. His reputation is soiled. He'll be remembered for this hole. Jopson will avoid his gaze now, he’s sure of it. He will pull away when Edward places a steadying hand on his shoulder. He won’t encourage Edward to chat with him while he scrubs the deck in the wardroom. The fragile companionship he’s built—the ridiculous hope with it—that it could be something more, one day—when they cross the Passage—that Jopson might let him into his heart, that he may kiss the smile from his lips under a sunny sky—oh, it’s all gone now!

“We’ve had such a hole on _Clio_ ,” Captain Fitzjames says, probably noting Edward’s tense silence. He’s quick to add, “It has been reported to me.”

Crozier makes a strange face; all the others look on with horrified curiosity.

“Is it a standard feature, then?” Sir John asks, hopeful to the last.

“On long voyages, yes.” Fitzjames makes an expensive gesture. “The men grow—restless. The hole helps them ease carnal frustrations that might plague their mind.”

Sir John’s brows shoot up to his hairline. “You don’t mean to imply—? My word, do they have intercourse with the bulkhead?”

“With the person on the other end,” Fitzjames says gently. He sits unflinching under scrutiny, even risks a smile. Edward envies his easy manner: even while talking so freely, he looks a perfect gentleman. Edward himself is a fake. He burns his lips on the tea, and slurps too loudly.

“By Jove,” Sir John says, “How perverted.”

“Criminal,” Irving adds. 

“I’m certain it’s just one lost lamb desperate for company,” Fitzjames reassures them. He makes it sound normal; natural, even.

Edward is going through the muster rolls of Terror to determine who would seek out such an inappropriate hole—he has his usual suspects, at least twenty of them. The list will only grow as the nights get long. He’s not alone in his tastes, he knows. It baffles him that he did not catch wind of the hole’s existence before, but he is no midshipman now—no one tells filthy secrets to the first lieutenant.

He is quite solitary, in fact.

“There is no evidence that the hole has ever been—used,” Irving perks up, only falling back to the depths of the most acute embarrassment on the last, unfortunate word.

Sir John makes a face and waves it away, no doubt disgusted by the whole matter. “Don’t let’s dwell on it. Francis, Terror is yours: see to it that this obscene little crack is sealed. I shall remind the men to atone for unclean thoughts in prayer. Our Lord shall guard our virtue.”

“Amen,” Edward mumbles instinctively. He’s a sinner: he knows it. His religion is this: everybody is. Might as well make the most of it. Fooling women into thinking he was interested in them always seemed more cruel. He thought Jopson might share his vice, if not from the heart, then from habit: men of all sorts seek company at sea.

He’s pondered a fair deal on Jopson’s supposed sexual habits. He imagines him to be curious, but demure. Frottage—for sure; maybe getting frigged; but such a man would never put his mouth on another, or let himself be buggered. At night, he imagines Jopson lying on his back in a crisp white shirt, the lanterns unlit: moonlight on his skin, a shocked expression of pleasure, a swallowed gasp— _oh, Lieutenant Little_ —a calming kiss—Edward’s hands wandering, caressing him. An expanse of smooth skin—then a patch of soft hair, hard flesh—Edward would touch him there with only the most tender of caresses—if he ever proposed to take Jopson in his mouth, he’d be disgusted, surely, and worse still, he’d try to hide it, for he’s polite, and—

He’s not Edward’s.

He should stick to his rentboys. The marines. Maybe go to that cursed hole and stick his prick in it. That’s what he’s good for; that’s all he’ll get on this voyage: Jopson is unreachable.

* * *

Edward takes the first dogswatch and then first watch too, because he has nothing better to do. Occupying one’s time on a ship is an exercise in tedium; and as he refuses to pass the hours by, say, the use of a certain hole, he makes the most of watching the dark sea. The ice floes gleam in the moonlight, like a shiny pathway leading into the unknown. _Terror_ is anchored, swaying ever so gently on tame waves.

He’s only at peace when a ship rocks him.

Oh, but were they in warmer climates already! Hodgson finds the cold air invigorating; Edward isn’t quite certain he agrees. He keeps pacing the deck, hugging himself, huddled in his heavy wool coat. It felt stifling when he tried it on in London; now he wonders if it will keep him warm enough. He breaks his pattern and braces the forecastle, for maybe more exercise is what’s needed.

His long strides bring him away from the lanterns, further into the mouth of darkness. It's not the kind of dark one encounters in London. It's hungrier, swallowing up all the light. He’s somewhat spooked to find a lone figure there, staring out at the sea. He can only make out a silhouette, a man of his height, holding up his arm. He’s reaching for the moon, fingers held curiously, as if he’s measuring something.

Edward adjusts the rifle on his shoulder, out of habit. He shan’t use it: the stranger is not the first nightly walker he’s caught on deck, and won’t be the last.

The figure turns, and he’s no stranger at all.

“Mr. Jopson,” Edward greets him, cautious. Jopson looks like a creation of his fatigued mind: his skin glows and the moonlight makes his pale eyes gleam. His dark clothes obscure his frame, coat, hat and all. His expression shifts when he notices Edward, his polite mask slipping to reveal something more direct, a gaze more intent, his attention sharper before he bows his head and looks placid again.

“Good evening, sir. I hope I haven’t startled you?”

Edward shakes his head, steps closer, gripping the rifle’s strap, for he has to hold onto something.

“Morpheus strays from us, it seems,” Edward notes pleasantly. The slightest tilt of Jopson’s head tells him he shouldn’t have expected a steward to appreciate a reference to Greek mythology. He endeavours to add something, but all remarks that come to mind would just make the conversation more awkward.

“Clear skies tonight,” Jopson says to Edward’s immense relief. The weather; of course; they can discuss the weather, and have done so on numerous occasions. Edward only wishes he could focus enough to make a cursory remark on the cold, but he wasn’t prepared to face Jopson after the wardroom meeting, for he’s worried that Jopson now has an insight of his character he previously hadn’t possessed, and which might make him disinterested in anything Edward might say, observations on the temperature included. As he struggles to make his brain and tongue collaborate, Jopson adjusts his hair and says, “I’ve been trying to estimate our location, but I’m afraid I’m not yet familiar with the Northern hemisphere.”

“Much better than dead reckoning,” Edward says; it’s meant as a compliment, but doesn’t seem to register. Jopson has that polite look again that shows he doesn’t quite follow, and Edward dearly wishes he could stop belittling him accidentally, for a lieutenant might know a thing or two about navigation, but would be helpless without a good steward. (The last time he tried to compliment Jopson’s talents, he praised his “aptness in wifely duties” and had to avoid him for a fortnight out of embarrassment.)

“I shall get better at it, sir,” Jopson says cheerily, “before we reach the Passage: I’ll need to learn my star map anew at the Sandwich Islands.”

“It’s not difficult,” Edward says. By Jove, he hates himself. He licks his lips nervously and steps forward to right his mistake: words tend to fail him around a handsome fellow like Jopson, but actions—he can trust those. He points up at the sky, ink-black and vast. “Have you found Ursa Minor?”

“The saucepan, sir? Oh, yes!” Jopson draws the shape proudly with a finger. They stand shoulder-to-shoulder, close enough for Edward to smell him, clean linen, lather soap and the warmth of skin.

“Can you see its brightest star? Right there.” He draws closer when Jopson squints. “That’s Polaris, the North Star.”

“ _That’s_ the North Star?” Jopson leans overboard as he gazes up, a smile playing on his lips. Edward’s heart leaps to think he caused it. “Sir, is it true it’s immovable?”

“That’s quite right,” Edward allows. “Although we might as well say _they_ : he’s not just one star, but actually three, two in orbit—but from where we stand, Polaris appears to be the one constant on the sky.”

Jopson’s smile widens, his teeth glinting. He leans out so far Edward is worried he’ll stumble over the gunwale, and reaches to catch him. His hand hesitates before it’d grip Jopson’s coat; he elects to place a palm there instead, and lean closer.

“Polaris sits just above the north celestial pole, but it will drift away—wandering slowly—it’s due to the precession of the equinoxes...which are of no interest to us at present.”

“I wish I could see it better, sir,” Jopson sighs. There’s starlight in his eyes and his skin radiates heat. He smells so lovely. “Can you see all three stars?”

“Not naked. Not with the naked eye, I have sex—I have a sextant. It’s not a telescope, as in, it has a telescope, but you won’t see it better, you’ll just know where it is, and where you are, which is useful to be aware of.” He fumbles for the damn instrument, which he carelessly shoved into a pocket breaking all regulations and possibly the sextant too. It’s not like he has no respect for it, it’s just—it’s not like a uniform that deserves good care, it’s mundane as a toothpick, but he thinks Jopson will like it, he hopes, he wants him to.

“Show me please,” Jopson says, voice dropped low. Edward cannot resist. He presents the sextant like a gift. Jopson bends over the indicated telescope, his bum pressing against Edward’s groin. He stiffens and moves slightly, but shan’t embarrass Jopson by adjusting their position overmuch—besides, this is the best way to demonstrate.

“You can use the sextant to measure the altitude of celestial objects,” Edward says, the explanation easy, something he repeated a thousand times over. He cannot help his tone, however: he matches Jopson’s whisper, and even his touches are more delicate than usual. “If I twist the micrometer drum by about thirty minutes—just so—you should see the image of Polaris doubled, and one brought closer to the horizon.”

Jopson gasps: an innocent sound by all accounts, similar to the noise Edward made when he was learning how to read a sextant, but his mind wanders. His mouth forms words about the index mirror and horizon mirror, how to calculate nautical miles from arc minutes, and he demonstrates the usage of the index arm, all the while focusing on Jopson alone, his body pressed close to his. He wants to envelop him in his heat completely. Wrap himself around him and stay like that forever—it doesn’t have to be anything improper, just that shared closeness. They fit together so well, Jopson pressing up against him most eagerly; his hand is cold when Edward clasps it, guides it to the micrometer drum.

“Get it nice and tight,” he says. Jopson jolts, hisses; pulls back his hand. Edward glances at it, and notices that Jopson has fingerless gloves on—the metal of the sextant is burning cold. He curses himself for not warning him sooner, reaches for his poor hand. He puts Jopson’s fingers into his mouth without thinking: a common way to soothe an injury such as this—but Jopson makes a sound: he moans. The burn must pain him, Edward reasons. He laps at it reassuringly.

“Sir,” Jopson whispers. His eyes are dark, the pupils fat. He scissors his fingers, which must be his signal for Edward to let go. He releases him obediently, but Jopson doesn’t pull back. The tips of his wet fingers rest on Edward’s chin.

“You should let Dr. McDonald look at it posthaste,” Edward says, blood racing. He’s quite ashamed to linger on how intimate it feels, Jopson touching his face, looking at him intently, his eyes, his lips—he seems confused for a moment, then drops his hand.

“I don’t think it’s quite that serious, sir,” he says, somewhat guarded. He curls his fingers into a fist, as if to test it, then glances up at the sky with a strange yearning.

“Did you see it?” Edward asks, his blood singing still, drunk on Jopson’s closeness, the taste of his skin; he wants him like he never wanted anything, but he mustn’t take advantage, he must— “Did you see the North Star drop from the sky?”

Jopson nods, and smiles again—it’s softer, sadder. He reaches out as if to adjust Edward’s collar, then thinks better of it. He touches the sextant, briefly, with his knuckles. “Thank you for showing me, sir,” he says.

Edward wants to kiss him. Doesn’t.

* * *

He doesn’t know where he’s headed until his feet take him there. The hold is veiled in a darkness so thick his lantern hardly penetrates it. He finds his way to the cramped coal room easily, light on his feet. The sight of the hole makes him uneasy, but oddly thrilled. He half-expected it to be covered up; and sure enough, there is a crumpled piece of paper on the deck, which looks like it had been attached over the hole, then torn off. Edward squats down to inspect it, and sighs when he sees writing in Irving’s hand. _Confess your sins and ask the Lord for forgiveness. “As I live, saith the Lord, every knee shall bow to me, and every tongue shall confess to God_.” A scrambled remark comments on the verse choice; Edward doesn’t recognise the writing. It makes him lightheaded to think that somebody has been here already, and took affront at a lieutenant’s intervention.

He’s so lost contemplating the paper he doesn’t notice the footsteps until they draw quite near. He spooks at a creaking board, and scrambles to extinguish his lantern. As darkness falls, he realises his mistake: he wouldn’t have been considered suspicious—until now; he should’ve called out, and scolded the intruder, say that he was here to catch whoever trespasses. It might be a fellow officer—or a volunteer. The stranger is just outside the door, the flicker of his lone candle casting shadows under the doorframe.

Neither of them speak.

Edward’s muscles are taut, his mouth dry, and, well, as for his manparts, there’s a reaction there, for how could he resist danger? The idea of being found out is utterly humiliating, yet sends his head spinning all the same: he sees himself stripped of rank, or bent over a bench to be punished, maybe even keelhauled, and in all the increasingly frantic fantasies, Jopson is there, watching. _Knowing_.

The stranger moves: walks into the adjoining storeroom. He’s slow enough, protecting the candle’s frame. Edward jumps up when light pours through the hole: should the visitor peep into it and see his face, he’d be doomed. He cannot help his heavy breath, the thud of his heart. His trousers feel tight. The more he thinks on being discovered with a hard prick, the more erect he gets: for he imagines Jopson finding him in such a sorry state, casting the candle’s light on him and tutting, gently. “ _This won’t do, sir,_ ” he would say. “ _You’ll stretch the fabric_.”

He reaches for his buttons. Hesitates.

What if it’s Irving, returning to spy on sinners? Or perhaps Fitzjames come over from _Erebus_ for a laugh? He has no way to know: in his desperation, he takes off his gloves, and shoves two fingers through the hole.

He knows not what he expects; maybe to be bitten. There’s a soft sound from the other side: a _laugh_ ; and oh, he’s desperately hard now. He hears a thud: God have mercy, the stranger must have dropped to his knees. He licks Edward’s fingers, just a short, playful touch with the tip of his tongue.

Edward can still taste Jopson’s skin.

The dew-fresh memory of taking him into his mouth feels different, now.

He swallows thickly, and curls his fingers. _Come closer_. If only he could speak—but his voice would be recognised instantly. The stranger obeys anyway, licking between his fingers. There’s only one reason he'd be here, at the break of dawn. Therefore it’s not untoward—it’s not rude—for Edward to reach for the fastenings of his trousers again, and do what he came here to do.

The edge must be taken off. It’s a simple transaction. He must be able to control himself around Jopson; he did poorly tonight, pressing up against him like that, stroking his back, licking at his hand, however innocently it was all meant. He must find his fill so he will stop expecting Jopson to indulge him. Jopson won’t do it, even if he shares Edward’s tastes—he shouldn’t—it’s not proper, and Jopson is a proper man.

Edward? Oh, he’s quite the pervert.

He slides his prick through the hole. Expects to be laughed at again; a shocked grunt, some scolding maybe—but as he’s imagining it all in Jopson’s voice, his desire is not tampered at all.

The stranger touches the tip with a probing finger. Edward shivers. A simple point of contact, and already far too overwhelming while he lingers on Jopson’s eyes—how he’d look up at him, smiling beatifically, a digit caressing down the wet slit, “ _Is this for me?_ ”

The stranger follows a prominent vein, hums, pleased. He maps out the length, the girth. It doesn’t feel like he’s teasing Edward: there’s appreciation there—almost _worship_ ; and as an adoring kiss is pressed to the tip, Edward’s knees buckle.

He knows he’s well endowed. He never cared. A big cock is a burden at sea: no hope for anyone to take him dry, or even try. He’s used to annoyed looks, disappointed scoffs—fondly remembers the exceptions, but still: he can’t quite recall anyone showering his prick with kisses before. He’s not used to being pampered so: the stranger even fondles him, ticklish fingers pushing back the foreskin, and lips closing around the head.

The stranger seems to be lost in reveries, exploring him like only a lover would. Edward wonders who he’s thinking of. His mouth is hot, tight, wet, his tongue talented. If it was Jopson—if he ever did something like this—he would be just this thorough, but less experienced, more tentative.

The stranger strokes him again, then makes a sound around Edward’s cock and withdraws his hand quickly. His mouth more than makes up for it: he swallows him deeper. Judging by the sounds, he even strokes himself through his trousers with his other hand. Edward wants to tell him to get his cock out, but dreads the answer, the conspiring tone of a seaman instead of the smooth voice he yearns to hear, and jesting tones, _oi, is that Lieutenant Little?_ , the rumours that would spread—and should Jopson hear them—his prick twitches as he imagines it, Jopson’s wide, blue eyes.

“ _Fellated_?” he would ask, pronouncing the word with distaste, but perhaps, curiosity, and maybe he would say, “ _How was it_?”

Edward thrusts into the stranger’s tight throat, hears him choke and moan. There’s the rustle of fabric then the slide of skin on skin. Something to talk about, Edward reasons. He wants to fuck the stranger’s face until it _aches_.

(He’d be gentle with Jopson. If he ever dared to ask such a favour, he wouldn’t want more than a kiss to wet the tip, so he could slide between his milky thighs more easily. Jopson would make a face at the taste, scrunching his nose adorably.)

The stranger pulls back to spit into his palm. Edward’s prick is dripping with saliva; exposed to the chilled air, he shivers, leans against the bulkhead. The stranger kisses his prick, apologetic, and takes him back into his wonderful mouth.

By Jove; who might it be? His talent is evident; he’s clearly enjoying the act; this is no bored sailor looking for a favour, but someone like Edward, who _loves_ men; loves their company, laughter, figure, smell, a hard cock and a tight arse, the brief rest on a sweat-slick chest after, the tickle of hair.

Edward needs to see Jopson naked. If he’s this attractive in all those simple layers, Edward cannot fathom how beautiful he must be freed of them. He guides his prick down the stranger’s throat and imagines seeing Jopson’s cock, perhaps sighting it accidentally, a dip in the warm sea; but wouldn’t it be better if Jopson revealed it to him, in the utmost secrecy, standing together in a cabin and Jopson untucking his shirt, dropping the front of his trousers, so Edward could see—and touch, maybe—that pretty cock of his, the outline of which had caught his attention during a memorable dinner.

His arse, he knows well enough: small and flat, so it’d fit perfectly in Edward’s hands. He’s observed it so thoroughly it’s no challenge to imagine thrusting into it while he pushes into the stranger’s mouth, even though he thinks Jopson wouldn’t be too keen on the act, but perhaps if he asked really nicely—if he begged him—he might indulge him, let Edward use his arse while he occupied himself otherwise, bent over the table and polishing silverware as Edward came undone buried in him, lost to brutish lust. Jopson would look over his shoulder and ask, polite as ever, “ _Are you quite finished, sir?_ ”

Edward grunts, slips out from the stranger's mouth. He chases after his cock: licks at the base as Edward spills, his hand moving faster between his own legs.

Jopson probably never abuses himself. He’s above that. He’s better disciplined.

The stranger takes him back into his mouth, and even though Edward is overly sensitive, he lets him: waits for the man’s climax, for it’s only polite; and notes, almost fond, that his stranger makes a rather cute noise as he spills, a suppressed moan breathed out through the nose, like a high-pitched cough.

(If Edward could reach over the bulkhead, he’d stroke his hair. Provided it was appreciated.)

He almost says _thank you_ before he remembers all the reasons he shouldn’t.

He pulls back his spent prick; it’s strange to find it so wet, smeared with a spit of a man he might meet every day, but will never recognise. As he buttons up, he listens intently, trying to discern a noise that’d give away the stranger’s identity, his height or weight: but he’s near soundless as he dresses himself and raises the candle. Edward’s heart races as a ray of light shines through the hole: should the stranger barge into his room—but what would be gained from such intrusion? Only mutual jeopardy; Edward hopes the stranger doesn’t want to risk it.

The man hesitates before he leaves. Edward is tempted to call after him again. _Mr. Jopson_ , he mouths instead, and closes his eyes to linger on the fantasy of Jopson departing from a rendez-vous at dawn. Jopson leaving; that’s not such an outlandish fancy, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Content warnings for the fic:** Tom and Edward are having various forms of **anonymous sex** with each other (no other character is involved).* It’s consensual and fun in all cases, but since the encounters are non-verbal, the sexual acts (frottage, handjobs, blowjobs, anal sex) are only negotiated through touch, gesture and sounds. Both of them are fantasising about each other, but for a while, they both think that they’re hooking up with a stranger.  
> * Tom receives and politely refuses an offer in chapter 4; Edward implies in chapter 1 that he usually turns to rent boys or the marines.  
> There are some **period typical attitudes** towards sex, and sex between men. (This is probably the most sex-negative Edward I’ve ever written, with a sprinkling of internalised homophobia—I usually write him as out and proud as the period allows.)  
> Edward makes some clumsy attempts in later chapters to signal his homosexuality by expressing disinterest in women only to do a U-turn and pretend to be straight.
> 
>  **Author's note** : I totally bullshitted my way through HMS Terror’s layout. To the best of my knowledge, there was no store room next to the coal room; then again, to the best of my knowledge, there wasn’t a glory hole anywhere? 
> 
> @ktula continues to be the best, most supportive beta anyone could wish for
> 
> The title "The Strangers We Keep" was loosely inspired by Joe Pug’s Hymn #101, which @roseofgalaxies brought to my attention


	2. Tom

Tom dearly enjoys spending his evenings in the wardroom. It’s rather cosy: the smell of baccy puts him at ease, the company of officers, idle chatter. Hodgson is playing some blithe song on the hand organ, Irving is deep into his journal, and Little is reading a book with a deep frown. Tom tries not to keep gazing in his direction overmuch, but his sight is a comfort. He’s quite finished with tidying the room, but he occupies himself with dusting the lamps, as if he hadn’t done that already, just for an excuse to linger. Captain Crozier has long since retired, and Tom had been dismissed. He’s quite sorry for it; it pains him to see the Captain banish himself, when his company would be so welcomed, his dry humour appreciated, and even sweet Little would liven up.

Little keeps frowning at the page. Is the story upsetting, Tom wonders, or his vision unclear? In any case, the serious look becomes him. Tom doesn’t know what it is he finds so attractive in dark, gloomy gents—there’s something awfully romantic about them, and the more artless, the better: Tom so loves to toy with them! When Little glances up; Tom teases the feathers on the duster, head tilted. Little stares, then tears away his gaze and returns to his reading, ears burning.

Tom never quite knows if Little is scared of him or oblivious of his intimate interest. Tom’s patient; he has ample time to find out.

He stays when Irving glances at his fobwatch, hisses, and excuses himself. He’s headed for the hold, no doubt: Tom hopes it wasn’t him he pleased yesterday. He’s handsome enough, just not to his taste. Or, well. He supposes for a cock like th e one he sucked, he wouldn’t mind Irving’s stifled manner.

Hodgson is not a suspect: his secret gentleman is a brunette. He likes to think it was Little, but that’d mean the man is more fortunate than what’s fair: to be blessed with such pleasant features, such a lovely voice, a kind heart and a fairly massive cock too! 

Tom longs to taste it again, but he knows his chances are slim. It was likely a stray AB, woken up from his slumber, just as restless as Tom felt after his encounter with Little, who showed him the stars then dismissed him firmly, sending him to the doctor’s as if he never pressed close to him, or tasted his digits. The seduction of Lieutenant Little is a waltz: two steps forward, two steps back, and a constant dizziness.

The bell clangs; Hodgson stands with some bravado, pulling the lever one last time until the music fades. “Always at the best part,” he notes.

“Was this the best part, then?” Little mumbles, and licks his finger to turn a page.

Tom thinks of being on his knees, sucking on a stranger’s fingers, imagining that he’s returning a favour to Little. He suppresses a dreamy sigh, and gently slides the duster over the lamp’s dome for the fifteenth time.

“When we’re back in London, you’re coming to the Princess Theatre with me,” Hodgson says airly while he dresses for his watch, “and if you don’t leave worshipping the fabulous Emma Albertazzi, I shall eat my hat!”

“Bon appetit, then,” Little says. “The female voice is not my favourite instrument.” 

Tom’s heart thuds. Little is not looking at him; pointedly avoids him, Tom thinks—but oh, what if he's truly ignored?

Hodgson passes Little’s chair, pats his shoulder and leans closer. “She’s a contralto,” he says, and gives him a wink.

“Give me a heroic tenor.”

“I’ll give you a castrato.”

Edward waves him away with his book. “Shoo.”

Hodgson dances away in his slops, mock-singing a high-pitched song (French? Italian? Tom never knows the difference). Little stares after him, exasperated, then his gaze finds Tom again. He cannot help but straighten.

“Don’t let him take me, please,” Little says softly. Tom has noticed that he uses a different tone when he talks to him. Many officers do—and it’s usually not out of kindness: but Little’s voice is never commanding or conspiring, it’s earnest, gentle, near-desperate, as if Tom was the only soul aboard who spoke his language.

“I’ll be your heroic tenor, sir,” Tom offers. “Save you from those female voices.”

He means every word.

Little offers him a sad smile, turns away.

Tom can’t stand to lose his attention. If only his greatest virtue wasn’t invisibility.

“Would you care for some tea, sir?” he asks, when he knows he shouldn’t. It’s not the hour for it. Little won’t sleep if he drinks it, although he looks like he won’t rest anyways. He perks up, but the excitement in his eyes doesn’t match his dull tone.

“Some tea would be lovely, thank you.”

The request is easy to fill. Tom goes through the motions of it, enjoying the stretch of silence. With just the two of them in the wardroom, he can pretend they’re in their own little cottage, Little resting after a day of good work and Tom there to service him—his husband. What a spouse Little would make: never uncivil, exceedingly capable, and besides, he burns like a furnace: he'd heat Tom's bed very well. _Edward_ , he thinks, tasting the name like a secret. Maybe he could learn to love his Tom.

Little has gone back to his book by the time Tom services the tea. He interrupts his reading to thank Tom for it, and their fingers brush when he takes the saucer. Tom steps back into the corner. (If they were in their cottage, he’d sit at the table. Maybe in Little’s lap. Feel the poke of his cock; be at leisure to stroke it for him while Little busies himself with the tea. No fast tumble in the hold, Tom would be so _thorough—_ )

“Nobody makes tea like you, Mr. Jopson,” Little says; unsatisfied by his own compliment, he adds, “Best tea in the navy.”

A thrill runs through Tom. He keeps his tone mild as he notes, “I warm the pot, sir.”

It was intended as a casual comment so the conversation could be dropped, should it please Little; but he seems genuinely intrigued, maybe even perplexed as he frowns at the china. “Is one...meant to?”

“For the best tea in the royal navy, yes.” Tom is tickled pink; and when he’s happy, he gets chatty, so he says, “Word of advice, sir: once back home, remember to pour the cream off the milk before putting it into the tea, please.”

“Wish we had milk,” Little mutters, desolate.

Tom licks his lips. (Whiteness dripping. The harsh taste of it. How he lapped up every droplet. How he longs to do so again. He’ll have to, if Little carries on. Tom won’t find rest, thinking of him, and his berth is lonely, offers no privacy to just touch himself; he needs more, needs to be filled.)

“Thank you for never adding sugar, sir,” Tom says. Perhaps he shouldn’t let on that he noticed.

Little brings the cup to his lips, glances at him. “Wouldn’t dream of ruining your creation, Mr. Jopson,” he says. 

Tom sees stars again. Little, his Polaris. He steps close, bold. Reaches to take off the saucer from the book, where Little misplaced it. “May I ask what are you reading, sir?”

“Oh?” Little frowns at the cover as if he’s never seen it. “ _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_. I was uh, reminded of it.”

Tom struggles to recall his Shakespeare. He only remembers the singing.

“It’s the one with the ass,” Little supplies helpfully, then gulps his tea much too fast. Tom smiles; goes as far as to lean against the table.

“What is it about?” he asks, tone light.

“Falling in love.”

Tom adjusts his hair, feels his cheeks flush. Is this what’s it like to be courted? He’s been flirted with, often and well, but this—if there was intention beyond Little’s words—would be different. He returns to the cottage in his imagination, where his husband would say sweet nothings like this. Tom would sit at his heel, his head resting on his Edward’s knee, who would read while caressing his hair. (Tom pictures both of them naked, for it’s his own daydream, and he shall do as he pleases in it.)

“Is it a happy tale, sir?” he asks.

“Quite joyous,” Little says. “I’m just at the best part, at the end.” He takes a quick sip (it must be searing still) and opens the page he marked. Tom glances at the text politely, even turns a page and hums his feigned approval. His eyes catch a line _. Thou wall, O wall, O sweet and lovely wall, show me thy chink._ He blinks, skims the page.

“It’s a comedy,” Little explains.

“ _My cherry lips have often kiss’d thy stones_ ,” Tom reads, slow.

“It’s art. It’s—you might think it tasteless, I apologise, but you see, Mr. Jopson, it was the Renaissance, all—naked ladies and...such things.”

If only Little wasn’t so endearing when his tongue completely sabotages him.

“I’m not sure I have interest in that, sir,” Tom says in no uncertain terms. Little is too preoccupied hiding his shame in his teacup to catch his meaning. Tom should show mercy. Instead, he says, voice velvet, “Where’s the ass?”

Little looks up at him, bewildered. Tom puts more of his weight against the table, leaning in what he hopes to be a fetching manner. “Please show me the ass, sir?” he says, innocent.

“Right,” Little says. Starts looking through the text, which is a disappointment, but at least it gives Tom some time to gaze upon him unobserved. That nose will be his ruin; those shapely, pink lips. They must taste like ripe strawberries.

He adjusts his hardening cock while Little is not looking.

“I can’t find the ass,” Little says, eyes trained on the book. “There’s a scene where Robin Goodfellow turns Bottom, but I can’t quite recall—”

Tom relents. “Oh, when Mr. Goodfellow turns Mr. Bottom,” he says. “Of course, sir.”

Little closes the book, slides it across the table and pats the cover. “You should have it. I mean, it’s—it’s from the library, but read it?”

“I couldn’t possibly accept, sir,” Tom objects, trying to picture a life where he’d have the leisure. (He’d like to keep busy in their cottage.) “You haven’t finished yet.”

“We shall meet again, then,” Little proposes.

* * *

Tom goes to the hold a short while after bidding good-night to Little. He has a bundle of sheets with him, to appear busy. He neatly places them atop a box once he’s in the designated storeroom. There’s darkness on the other side of the hole, but he could swear he hears rustling. He hopes his senses are not tricking him: he’s in desperate need of male company.

He draws closer with his candle, heart fluttering. What would Little think, to know that he affects Tom like this? Oh, he aches for him: he strokes his cock with his free hand, feels it swell when there’s some sound from the other side—the rustling more prominent, and there: a cock, standing at full mast, is slid through the gaping hole.

Tom chokes back a pleased yelp, resists to urge to clap. It’s his stranger again! There’s no doubt about it: even if he weren’t so memorable, Tom has a good eye for this. He’s always found it fascinating how different cocks could be: not just the triviality of their size, but the girth, the shape, the colour and weight. He’s always curious to see what hides in a pretty uniform or in an amiable workman’s trousers.

He gets to his knees, as if in greeting, and bows his head. It’s worship, yes. For him, this act is sacred. The Church, well—they think differently, and Tom can respect that. His own reasoning is this: the beauty of this intimacy cannot be a sin. Besides, Adam himself was naked; the sin wasn’t that; it was hiding himself when he was created perfect.

He touches the skin where it’s softest, pulls it back, ever-so-gentle, to reveal the pink cockhead, and breathes on it to warm it. He hears his friend grunt, so he teases him again, his light fingers caressing down the curve. He wishes the stones he can only peek at would fit through the hole too, so he could play with them to his heart’s content, but this is plenty already. He strokes up the shaft swiftly, puts his pinky against the tip and nudges it downwards. A more desperate grunt follows. Satisfied, he spits into his palm, grabs the base and twists his hand, does it again, the rhythm more and more fervent.

Would Little commend his technique, or be jealous of it: would he demand a list of Tom’s past lovers (as if names were exchanged)? How would Tom confess this encounter, this nameless man he’s growing fond of, for (from what he can tell) he’s a beautiful fellow, and quite receptive, rewarding each stroke of Tom’s spit-wet hands with a groan or a whimper. Tom loves the way he sounds: he licks at him to let him know, takes himself in hand and thinks of Little, how he said he didn’t like the voice of women—a comment on musical tastes, yes, but if it went beyond that, if he was not attracted to the fair sex, that could mean no attraction to anyone at all, or, or, or—

Tom feels himself slobbering at the mere thought of Little with men: not even necessarily Tom himself, just a vague idea of a male lover pleasing him, preferably someone big and broad-chested, and maybe Tom would walk in, accidentally, to see him in bed, being taken—

He swallows the cock deeper and touches himself firmer. He has great control in this matter, and he wonders if Little would be impressed, if he would want to see him like this, on his knees for a ready prick, fisting his cock steadily, milking it, if he would note his finesse, if he would—

If it was the two of them, Tom would want to be buggered. While he loves imagining how pretty Little would look all spread out for Tom’s cock, limbs loose, panting into a pillow, Tom deserves to be serviced too, does he not, for he works so hard, and Edward recognises that. He imagines the bed of a gentleman, not the bunk but the four-poster Edward must have at home, a bed of enormous proportions and pillows like clouds, where he’d take Tom with unrelenting passion, and Tom would be free to lie back and enjoy his weight, the smell of his sweat, the press of his prick, every sharp jab of it—

He needs to grope his cock at the base to avoid spilling too soon. He tongues at the cock in his mouth, giddy with how greedy he’s being, his lips around a glorious prick while thinking about another one deep in his arse: wouldn’t that be fun?

He bobs his head to calm himself, but woefully gags. The sound he makes is thoroughly unattractive, yet the stranger moans and there’s a thud on the bulkhead—a fist hitting it. Arousal rushes through Tom in a new wave; he gets up on trembling feet, fondling the cock in apology, for he needs a minute to recover his breathing. Standing thus, their cocks align—they must be of a height. Tom mulls this new information over as he gingerly slides his cock against the stranger’s, waiting for an answer. He gets a grunt of approval, so he rubs against it proper, then takes the both of them in the same hand.

This is how it’d feel to be with Little.

He never considered the act, but engaged thus he has no idea why not: it’s divine, and looking down offers quite a sight. He spits directly on their joined cocks, some of the saliva smearing over his clothes—but he always enjoys getting marked by illicit activities such as this. More often than not, a mark is all he gets to keep. White spots to wash away.

He presses his weight into the wall to get more of the friction, more of the heat, more of their mutual need—oh, he feels wanted, dearly wanted. When the stranger spills, Tom just keeps thrusting up against him, the come dripping down their joined cocks, one hard, one getting soft. Undignified and ruined, he mewls when the stranger pulls back. He’s so aroused he briefly considers Sir John’s misguided idea to just shag the hole itself—but his friend reaches for him, two fingers coaxing him closer through the tight opening. When Tom slides in, there’s wetness and heat waiting, an eager mouth closing around him, and Tom’s so grateful he starts sobbing.

His friend didn’t abandon him.

The man is somewhat clumsy, but it matters not: it’s the intent of the act, the sensation of being accepted into someone else’s body, and a few strokes of his friend’s tongue is enough to push him over. He collapses against the bulkhead and trembles while his darling stranger keeps sucking on him. It’s overwhelming in the best way.

He steps back once he has the strength, still shaking all over. There’s movement from the other side: a handkerchief is offered. Tom is staring at it until he realises he’s still hiccuping up sobs; he hopes his stranger knows they are tears of pleasure and joy. He takes it and dabs at his eyes, then sneaks a glance at the monogram. The embroidery is careful work in multiple colours, but there’s only one letter there: _E_.

That leaves Edwin Helpman, Edwin Lawrence, Edward Genge, or none other than Edward Little.

Any of them could be his friend, for they all have dark hair and are of average height; but surely enough, one can have a preferred outcome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading; the fic is completed and updates on weekends; kudos and comments are much appreciated! 💖
> 
> Please consider a [reblog](https://longstoryshortikilledhim.tumblr.com/post/636686791799439360/may-i-humbly-present-this-here-joplittle-fic) / [retweet!](https://twitter.com/forautumniam/status/1335279172936232960)


	3. Edward

Edward vows to avoid the hole. He needs to evaluate this obsession; to think about needs and passion, duty and decorum. He should be restrained, but something far stronger than lust pulls at him: longing. Oh, he’s quite fond of the stranger—but it’s not fair: for he fancies him to be Jopson still, when he shouldn’t even be convinced that it was the same man both times. He thought he recognised him—his talented touch, his playful teasing, the sounds he made, the flicker of the single flame.

It’s a dangerous distraction, in any case.

Worse still, for that night he lies awake, thinking that if he stops going, his stranger will wait for him in vain—the poor lad had shed tears; how cruel it would be, to stay away. Around dog watch it occurs to him that someone else might visit the hold: another seducer in his absence to play with his stranger, treat him better, make him enamoured, to the point he might never return to Edward. He pictures his stranger as Jopson, sated and happy, falling into the embrace of a sailor whom he pleased.

The jealous thoughts linger the entire day. When Jopson knocks on his door mid afternoon, he’s too gloomy to greet him kindly, sitting in his chair with a ramrod-straight back, scribbling into his logbook.

“Awfully sorry to interrupt, sir,” Jopson chats; Edward is too upset to meet his eyes, but he notices he’s holding a large basket. “I’m collecting laundry.”

Edward knits his brows. “Whatever happened to Mr. Gibson?”

God. It’s scurvy, isn’t it?

“He’s perfectly well, sir,” Jopson says as he steps closer, balancing the basket. “Only, I’m washing a larger load, and once I get all that water boiling, it’d be a shame to waste it. I thought to myself _, Tom, you better go around and ask the officers for their handkerchiefs_.”

Edward’s hand flies to his pocket instinctively. He’s loath to give his hankie away, and the possessiveness surprises him. His stranger had it—the stranger he pictures to be Jopson—yet it’d feel like a betrayal of his trust.

(He’d quite forgotten about the monogram when he handed it over. Good thing his sister Jane had no patience to do the L.)

“I, er,” he says, looks around frantically. It’s laundry day, but he shan’t bother Jopson with his sheets (what if they’re unappealing?) or his sweaty clothes (if only he had a more becoming scent, not quite so heavy and musky!). “I’ve a neckerchief,” he mumbles as he ruffles up his hair, helpless.

“Ah, I shan’t boil that, sir,” Jopson says. “It’s silk: it needs cold water, a gentler treatment.”

“Right,” Edward says, humbled, even though Jopson’s tone is light. Edward can feel his gaze on him, and something in it is changed, slightly—it’s less direct, more considering; but if Edward looked at him, he would flush, or do something unwise, like stare at his lips and picture them tight around—

“Handkerchiefs need boiling, sir,” Jopson presses on.

Edward could offer a different one, but all of them stand testament to Jane’s disinterest in needlework. They’re not only precious, but instantly recognisable—if Jopson recognised them, Edward doesn’t quite know what he’d do, whether he’d swoon for fright or joy—but if he didn’t—oh, if he did _not—_ if he took a handkerchief with no remark, no recognition, bid adieu and left Edward with the knowledge that he’s not the stranger, would never be (how could he!), if Edward was forced to face it—oh, he’d die of shame!

He’s been unfaithful to Jopson.

Potentially.

He has made no vow of loyalty, yet still—guilt chews at him.

“I shall think they’re rather clean, thank you,” he says, a lie so obvious with the cold going around ship that he half-expects Jopson to laugh, or demand to inspect them: but he is meeker than that, and accepts Edward’s answer with a gracious bow.

“You’ll find me in the hold, sir,” Jopson says, and Edward strains every muscle not to react, for where else would Jopson do the laundry? It means nothing...or does it? “Should you find something in need of tending.”

“Thank you,” Edward says again, and wants to add _sorry_ , but he has nothing to apologise for.

Jopson is not the man who pleased him so well.

He cannot be.

* * *

Maybe he is. Edward wants him to be. It’s strange to think that he never touched Jopson proper without the burden of several layers. Jopson should be caressed often, gently fondled, and his cock needs a firm hand.

(It’s shameful to think of Jopson’s cock. It’s also unavoidable. If it’s anything like the cock pressed up against him yesterday, a most elegant prick he tasted happily, lapped at it as if it were a delicacy—how could he not wonder how Jopson might sound, with his prick getting sucked?)

No, Jopson would never allow that. Even if all the stars aligned, with Polaris shining bright, and Jopson was in Edward’s berth, he’d just—lie there, under the covers, the lights turned off, and—what then? Would he enjoy what the stranger did, rubbing their pricks together? Would he grasp them with a white-gloved hand, so Edward couldn’t feel that his hands are rough and calloused, like the stranger’s are? Edward would be so careful with him, pepper his face with kisses, whisper his thanks. Pleasing Jopson would be a privilege; Edward would service him how he liked, maybe even offer to fuck his hole, or offer his own arse—

Jopson would turn him down.

What a strange torment it is, to have the sympathies of a stranger, but not the object of his affections! If his heart and soul didn’t belong to Jopson, he’d yield them to the stranger, not merely his body. He wants them both, the stranger _eros_ and Jopson _philia_ —or maybe, _mania_.

* * *

As the sea turns black and the waning moon ascends, he meets Jopson again, not long before dinner. Edward is freshly arrived from the forecastle, chilled to the bone; he freezes in place when he sees the smile Jopson flashes at Helpman. They’re engaged in conversation in the galley, gold lights flickering over their face; Jopson adjusts his hair, and his teeth flash as he laughs.

Edward’s heart shatters.

He shan’t, he shan’t—he has no right to call Jopson his, yet seeing the pair chatting so easily fills him with jealousy. It’s not as if he suspects something untoward: rather, he envies the lack of awkwardness his blundering desire won’t allow him. To be playful with Jopson; friendly; it seems too long ago he showed him the stars, saw his eyes shine for him, and him only.

He steps up to them all too swiftly, not minding where he’s going or what he will say. Jopson is balancing a silver tray on his fingertips, filled with glasses of dark wine, so Edward reaches for one from behind, just to have an excuse for the interruption. His ears are ringing; he hears not what Helpman is saying, not until it’s too late— _careful, sir;_ Jopson turns sharply, spooked, perhaps, and the tray collides with Edward’s chest.

The men in the mess have the audacity to cheer and clap.

“Butterfingers,” Jopson hisses, sounding much upset with himself; he crouches down and Edward follows suit, falling to his knees and begging forgiveness.

“I’m the most awful kind of sorry,” he says, reaching for the shards with bare hands. Jopson grabs his wrist—he’s wearing gloves, tainted with red wine.

“Leave it to me, sir,” he says, and still he sounds so kind, so pleasant: Edward would be furious in his stead. “I haven’t broken glass since I was twelve,” Jopson says and tuts.

“ _I_ broke them,” Edward insists. “Please, let me help.”

Jopson looks up with a curious expression; Helpman, standing still, notes, “At least they weren’t the crystal set.”

“Don’t even say that,” Jopson says; his smile is back.

Edward hangs his head and searches for his mittens. He’s so ashamed for inconveniencing Jopson, and for what? Because he wanted his smile all to himself, all his chatter? A fine job he’s doing at courtship or seduction! 

“Oh, sir!” Jopson gasps. “Your collar!”

Edward cranes his neck, but cannot see it.

“His coat too,” Helpman says helpfully.

“Could you finish cleaning, please?” Jopson asks. “I must see to those stains post-haste.”

Helpman crouches down while Edward is pulled up. Jopson’s grasp speaks of a surprising confidence as Edward is navigated away from the scene of the accident. He’s glad he cannot see himself: he must be drenched. The smell is already getting him lightheaded—the wine must’ve been thick and rich, perhaps a new bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon.

Before he knows it, he’s gently pushed into a cabin—Jopson’s; Edward stands his ground like a stubborn dog; he wouldn’t dream of disgracing the place. Jopson urges him further in, and as the cabin is tiny, Edward cannot do much to resist. Jopson pulls in the door, lights a candle—a single candle—and reaches to undress Edward.

Edward thinks he might be drunk.

Jopson looks at him, imploring. His eyes shift to green as he tilts his head; Edward could swear they were blue just a moment ago. He’s in the lair of a rare, beautiful creature, remorseful but helplessly aroused.

“May I?” Jopson asks, voice a gentle whisper. Edward nods his consent; is not prepared for Jopson to pull back, tug a glove off with his teeth.

Must be easier to take it off that way.

He stands still as Jopson unbuttons his coat. He wishes away the swell of his prick, but thinking of it only worsens it. He’s in luck his uniform is quite thick, so even with the coat shed, his dignity is intact.

“May I inspect your shirt, sir?” Jopson asks.

Right.

“It’s just the collar,” he says; he hopes; but Jopson is the expert. As he starts undoing his frock coat and waistcoat, he glances at Jopson—he worked on Edward’s buttons far more deftly. “Your jacket.”

“Beg pardon, sir?”

“I’m afraid it’s stained too.”

Jopson makes a horrified face and glances down at himself. It’s odd, that he wouldn’t think to check: but maybe his duty distracts him; maybe it’s—oh, Edward doesn’t dare to hope it. He’s not that charming. He’s a blundering fool who walks into stewards and breaks their glasses. He doesn’t deserve to watch Jopson undress, but he cannot look away.

There’s something in the way Jopson touches clothing, like he knows it. Dressing is a chore for Edward, one step after the next, unthinking, unpleasant. Jopson sheds the jacket like a phoenix rising from the ashes. Edward notices that the lining is extensively patched. He couldn’t have guessed: the outside looks immaculate.

“Did you make that jacket, Mr. Jopson?” he asks, fumbling with his own buttons still.

“Wish I had the skill, sir,” Jopson notes mildly as he inspects the wool. “My father was a cloth merchant; this jacket is part of my heritage, so to speak.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Not that bad, being a merchant’s son.”

“I’m sorry he _was_ —that he has, as it were. Passed over.” Edward bites his tongue and vows never to speak again. He _knows_ how to express condolences, he swears, he’s a navy man, God knows he’s done it many times over, but the sight of Jopson in his shirtsleeves makes him tongue-tied. As Jopson sheds his waistcoat to inspect it, too, it becomes evident that he has a broader frame than Edward expected. He used to blame the construction of Jopson’s jacket; now it’s clear he was mistaken. His braces strain over his chest—they’re not leather, like Edward’s, but some embroidered textile.

“I was very young,” Jopson says, and sets his waistcoat on his washing basin. He turns back to Edward, who is just slipping off the braces and reaches over his head to tug the shirt off.

“You still have your youth,” he says. He becomes momentarily trapped; he’s not in control of his limbs. Jopson breaks him free, so Edward stands in his undershirt, and embraces himself against the chill. Jopson looks him over before turning his attention to the shirt in his hands. His eyes have gotten even darker, the pupils fat.

“Vinegar,” he says, almost to himself, steps to the basin. Edward needs to pull back to give him space, his back against the bulkhead. They’re so close that if Jopson turned his head, they could kiss. He adjusts his prick when Jopson is not looking.

He watches him treat the stains in silence, wishing they could stay like this forever. He wants to chat—wants to learn more of Jopson’s past, his family, his training, but he’s content to just look now, at his strong hands rubbing the clothing, his hair falling into his face. Jopson blows on the errant lock, adorably annoyed. Edward reaches to adjust it for him without thinking, for Jopson’s hands are wet, and he cannot be expected to do it himself. His hair is smooth and it spills over Edward’s hand like ink; he’s marked by the knowledge of how soft it is, for now he won’t be able to think of anything else but when may he touch Jopson’s hair again. Jopson glances at him, lips parted slightly; Edward traces the shell of his ear, a question on the tip of his tongue, _may I kiss you,_ a question so simple he’s said it many times over in taverns to rentboys; but Jopson is not like that, he wouldn’t want to be kissed, wouldn’t want the rest.

The smell of vinegar is sharp in the air.

Edward should let it sober him. He pulls back his hand, torn with regret. Jopson wets his lips as if to speak, but Edward interrupts him. “Thank you for helping,” he says roughly, instead of _you’re beautiful like this_ , or making a remark on Jopson’s nipples probing at his shirt, perhaps a joke about the cold, but that’d be untoward and crude anyway, and Jopson wouldn’t appreciate it; he’d be scowling at him, or, worse still, force on a smile and laugh.

“My pleasure, sir,” Jopson all but purrs, kneading at the shirt in his hands. Edward wants to touch him again. He wouldn’t stop at his ear. That’s why he can’t. He puts his hands behind his back, standing at parade rest while his prick is at attention. It’s not visible, not yet, but it will be if Jopson keeps looking at him like that, head tilted. His hair slips into his face again, disobedient—

The bell sounds; Edward has never felt so disappointed, so relieved.

“Must dress for dinner,” he says, and the realisation that he’ll have to march through the passageway without his uniform is enough to tamper his erection.

“These need soaking, sir,” Jopson says. “Should I bring them over later?”

“Leave it,” Edward says, inching towards the exit. As he brushes up against Jopson (there is no space, and no air to breathe, everything is hazy, heady)—oh, he wants to grab him, grasp his slender hips and pull him onto his prick.

He must escape.

* * *

He managed to dress himself for dinner, which is a minor achievement with a prick refusing to be subdued. He’s watching Jopson dart about, placid as ever, but there’s something in his eyes, a new glint, almost self-congratulatory, as if he’s proud of something; he has every right to be: the service is excellent, and entirely unnoticed. At one point, Hodgson snaps his fingers at Jopson as if he were in a restaurant; Edward is tempted to challenge him to a duel.

“Sir,” Edward says, addressing Crozier, “would you care to share your best memories of the Antarctic expedition?”

He would appreciate a general reminder of Jopson’s expertise for all gathered, for he knows that Crozier will give him ample credit.

“I loved the silence while we ate,” Crozier grumbles, then arches an eyebrow at Edward. Edward makes an exasperated face, which makes Crozier smirk, for he recognises the humour in it. They have fallen into an easy rapport, which is an unexpected relief.

Captain Drake wasn’t to be trifled with. Too much like his namesake.

“Jopson!” Crozier calls, a bit too loud—as if Jopson wasn’t always within earshot of everything.

“Sir,” he replies readily, halting the serving of pudding, much to Irving’s chagrin.

“We’re sharing sentimental tales of the Antarctic,” Crozier says. “What did you like best, pray tell?”

“The birds, sir,” he says, glances at Edward. Did he recognise his intent—that he wanted a way to remind the lieutenants of Jopson’s polar expertise, show them he’s due respect?

“Surely, you don’t mean the penguins.”

“I do mean the pengwings.”

Crozier scoffs and raises his glass to be filled. “Those bastards?”

Jopson produces a bottle seemingly out of thin air. “I found them to be quite tame, sir; then again, I must admit I did not approach them with a gun drawn.”

“There was no way of knowing if they were dangerous!” Crozier retorts.

Jopson arches a brow that mimics Crozier’s. “As you say, sir.”

Crozier scoffs again, and points his refilled glass at Edward. “You’re making him cheeky.”

Edward nearly chokes on his pudding. “Me, sir?”

Jopson turns away to set down the bottle. Edward wishes he could see his face; wonders if he’s blushing.

“No good has ever come from talking at the table,” Crozier announces, and knocks on the wood. “Shan’t be encouraged.”

“Consider the last supper, sir?” Irving supplies meekly.

Edward’s attention drifts to white wrists with dark hair and a mysterious smile that lingers. Jopson moves with such ease as if he were gliding on ice, navigating the narrow places that always make Edward feel blundering and awkward. He’s exceptional, even among stewards.

Edward is aware that stewards are...popular.

They are the closest thing the men can have to a wife. Edward had known for a long while he wasn’t the marrying type, but Jopson makes him appreciate the joys of it. Good company, ready help, someone practical, clever, with nimble hands, and easy on the eyes; if he could observe Jopson all day long in his various employments, he would be the happiest man. Once they have sailed through the Passage and returned to England, he’ll be promoted Commander; and as such, will be in need of his own steward. If Jopson were amenable, he’d take him to South America, show him new constellations, stroll the towns, listen to music unlike anything, and—

What then? Oh, if only they could dance! If only he could pull Jopson close to him, feel his strong body radiate heat, lean to his ear and whisper lyrics in Spanish, teach him the language, spell out _te amo mucho_ with the tip of his tongue, licking into Jopson’s mouth. Take him to his cabin…

He only realises they’ve been staring at each other when Jopson finally blinks.

* * *

He must wait until he can see the stranger again. He’s pacing his cabin until their usual time comes, thoughts wild. He’s fired up from sharing Jopson’s company. With not a private word exchanged during dinner, he burns for him all the more. His blood hums the lullaby of Jopson’s voice; the lanterna magica of his mind perpetually replays his tiniest movements; and oh, the sweet sight of him is etched deep into his memory.

He seeks out the hold with the clear intention of summoning Jopson. He shall piece him together from all the fragments he assembled, then claim him whole, body and soul. The stranger shall be his accomplice. A role not quite rewarding; Edward is sorry for it, truly, but he desires no other than Mr. Jopson—the stranger is merely his proxy, the closest thing Edward can get of him, a taste of the pleasure Jopson’s body could yield in another world, and Edward is desperate for it.

The glow of his lantern penetrates the darkness. He should be more careful, but his excuses still hold water, the shameful lies he prepared, that he’s merely here as spy and witness, to enforce order. His words might not matter: if someone were to find him out, they would see a man near feral with want, eyes blazing, face flushed, and his trousers taut over his groin, his intention obvious; the thought of such shame is too thrilling.

The opens the door to his usual nook with a racing heart. He makes a sound of surprise as the light falls on a most peculiar sight, and staggers back a step.

He’s not alone in the coal room.

The company, however, is lovely—what he can see of it.

The hole, well. It got bigger. Far bigger—big enough to fit a man, or _half_ of him. The torso is obscured; but he can see a pretty set of long legs, a supple arse and a heavy prick; all the bits that matter for such an encounter.

He hums low in his throat, and sees the stranger twitch impatiently. Could it be...? He pulls the door close behind himself, and steps closer, raising his lantern. The skin of the man is pale enough to appear almost translucent—must be someone who works below deck. The hair on his legs is dark and thick, with a near luxurious quality to it. He’s lean, but strong: not quite built like the typical sailor. There’s nothing that’d speak more on his identity: the stranger is naked entirely, even got rid of his socks and boots. All that seems distinct is a rather nasty scar above his right knee.

That’s not what Edward is interested in.

He puts the lantern to the ground and goes to his knees. Places a hand on the stranger’s thighs, feels him tense; waits until he is relaxed, then nudges his legs further apart, and inclines his head to inspect his prick better.

It’s definitely the cock he had in his mouth.

He recognises its pretty pinkness, the round bollocks, the shy head that peeks out of the foreskin when he pulls it back. The stranger whimpers; Edward licks his palm without thinking, touches him with gentler fingers, then takes his hand back.

He understands that this prick, however delectable, is not what’s on offer tonight.

He rises to his feet and looks down at the man in front of him, exhaling slowly. God, he’s exquisite. (He’s like he imagines Jopson to be.) He wishes he could speak, so he could tell him, _you’re perfect, you’re just what I needed_.

He thinks of Jopson in his shirt and braces when he bends forward, plants a kiss to the stranger’s back. He drags his lips over the soft skin while he imagines a version of events where Jopson kept undressing, and offered himself. His hair falls forward; Edward lets it, for the stranger shivers feeling it. Edward rubs his cheeks over his skin so the stranger can feel the burn of his whiskers: it must be pleasurable, for the stranger moans, choked-off. Edward hums in answer, kisses the jut of his tailbone, and pries his cheeks apart. He finds him glistening and wet, and laughs to himself, a fond scoff.

Jopson would be just this thorough.

(Jopson wouldn’t put his arse on display in the hold.)

But suppose it wasn’t the hold—suppose that they were sailing around the Americas, and after a day of watching birds ( _you’re fond of them, you said, Mr. Jopson, Thomas_ ,) and mapping stars ( _can you show me the North Star? you’ll get to choose your reward_ ) they retired to Edward’s cabin, where his faithful steward served him bitter tea then undressed him, washed his shirt ( _stained with wine, perhaps_ ) and Edward went down on his knees to show his thanks…

He inserts a finger. The stranger clenches around the curled tip of it, pulls him in deep. He’s delightfully tight.

( _You’d be too, isn’t that right, Thomas? I bet you have a tight little arse._ )

Edward gasps. He shan’t, he shan’t—

( _I used to think you wouldn’t enjoy this, but look at you, huh. There are men who love their arse; how couldn’t you love yours, when it’s such a perfect thing? I watched it during dinner, a forbidden dessert just out of reach, a ripe peach I’d dearly love to—_ )

He sinks his teeth into the flesh of the stranger’s arse. He gasps with it, pushes back against Edward’s finger. He inserts another, easing the passage.

_(If I had an arse like yours, Thomas, I’d want it stuffed with cock all the time.)_

_(Do you want mine?)_

_(You only have to ask.)_

“Plea—” the stranger pants, then bites on his tongue. He pushes back again, more insistent, riding Edward’s fingers.

_(I had a lover once, back on Terror. He was quite impatient, you know; stubborn; eager; there are moments when you remind me of him…)_

Edward hushes the stranger as he reaches for the buttons of his trousers.

_(I imagined you to be him and fucked him rather well.)_

_(Fucked him how you deserve to be fucked, Thomas.)_

He feeds his cock to the stranger, torturously slow, until the man is merely a whimpering mess, keening softly, his naked feet slipping on the deck.

_(You must forgive me, Mr. Jopson. I’m such a base person.)_

_(You deserve a genteel lover.)_

_(I’d ruin your perfect little arse for anyone else.)_

He wonders if the stranger will just stay here, after he fucked him, his seed leaking from his arse until someone else comes around and fucks it back into him.

_(Truly, Mr. Jopson, I’m ashamed.)_

He holds the stranger’s buttocks in his palms, fucking him with short little jabs of his aching cock.

_(Restraint does that to a man, changes his truest nature; I thought visiting the hold might help me be rid of instinct, but I just crave more sex. I wonder if you’d ever understand how much I needed to get my prick wet every time we met.)_

_(I’m afraid we met often.)_

He slams in harder.

_(Close quarters.)_

Grips the stranger’s arse so tight his knuckles whiten.

_(I didn’t go to sea for glory; I went because it was my duty—and I must say, no, I shall confess, if you will listen—oh, I’m sorry, but you must know by now—for a sodomite such as I, paradise is found not at our destination, but during the journey, buried deep in someone just as solitary as myself—)_

_(If you ever felt lonely—truly lonely—you’ll forgive me.)_

_(Before I had you, I gave him my seed.)_

Edward spills within. Holds the stranger close while his cock starts softening and he ceases panting. _Is this me,_ he wonders, _is this my innermost self? An animal of need and hunger—or am I a gentleman? Can I be both, perhaps?_

He pulls out his prick, dresses it back in uniform.

If there only ever was someone to see both sides, and cherish them equally: see Edward as more than his lust and not less than his rank.

He kisses the stranger again, his gaping ring of muscle. Laps at him and adds a thick finger until he hears him moan, feels him shiver.

He has a lot to learn as a commander; as a gentleman, he’s artless; but at least he’s still good for something.

If only it was enough to earn Jopson’s esteem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ktula: Stewards are kinda like wives  
> Me: Oh my god stewards are kinda like wives
> 
> Will poor Tom ever marry? Find out next Saturday!


	4. Tom

Tom has nothing but the highest regards for his secret friend. Indeed, they had committed a beautiful deed, one that shall be long remembered even when the ache fades. Tom keeps clenching his buttocks just in case, to feel out the lingering sensation. He’s full in a way he’s never been before, sated with his friend’s seed, which has been an honour to carry.

He can’t be sure it was him.

He can hope ever on.

The timing seems indicative; more than circumstance, it was how he approached Tom in that vulnerable position. Only the same man who’d given him his handkerchief would greet him with a shower of kisses, he’s sure of it. (Maybe it’s the same man who offered to lend him a story of true love, who wanted to hear his tales from Antarctica, who has touched him with kindness, adjusting his hair). Tom doesn’t want to be buggered by anyone else, ever. (Unless it’s _not_ Lieutenant Little). When he expanded the hole, he hoped he hadn’t been too bold, that his innovation would meet a sweet reward.

He’d been right.

He’s smiling to himself while he kneads the dough for the officers’ breakfast bread. Mr. Diggle is talking to him, but he hardly hears it. The familiar sounds of the galley fade away, the smells dissipate; he can barely see his flour-covered hands.

The other night, he felt loved.

Cherished, in any case. Appreciated, in a way he constantly craves.

That hole is a portal of joy. To think that he used to just frig his fist, biting down on Little’s name, when now he can have this—how lucky he is! Hard work does have its bounty, it seems.

He hardly reacts when Lieutenant Little walks up to him, hat in hand. He seems like a figment of Tom’s imagination with the soft morning lights filtering through the hatch, the dusting of snow on his shoulders, his lips: red and bitten. Tom smiles at him dreamily instead of a proper greeting. It’s his husband come to see Tom busy in their tidy kitchen, lured in by the scent of baking. He’d be proud of Tom, doubtlessly, for waking so early just to feed him: but it’s a pleasure—and if his Edward offered to help, Tom would let him lick the spoon, and something else besides.

“Mr. Jopson,” Little says, voice gruff and eyebrows knitted. Tom stops rolling the dough.

Gosh.

Little is really here.

“Good morning, sir,” he says in a tone which is sufficiently professional, and straightens—his smile isn’t gone, however. He reaches to wipe his hands on his apron, then stops himself at the last moment, remembering his manners. They’re not in their own little kitchen; not alone; not unobserved.

“I was...” Little says, points behind his shoulder. He looks deliciously uncertain, as if Tom could convince him he did not come from that direction. (Maybe he didn’t; maybe he fell from the sky, like a star.) “I’ve been sent here to report a visit from Erebus.”

“Is that so, sir?”

“Captain Crozier requests more bread,” Little says, risking to meet Tom’s gaze; his eyes are a bright brown, and the red in his whiskers is more prominent in the bright lights of the galley. (If he asked, Tom would give all the bread to him. Feed him from his hand. He makes the loaves with walnuts and raisins, so they’re sweet and filling.)

“How big is the visiting company, sir?”

Little’s face falls: oh, he’s far too charming when he’s apprehensive! “I cannot be certain.”

“I’ll double the amount just in case,” Tom says, and absent-mindedly wipes his face. Easier said than done: and the Captain’s voice says in his head to watch the portions, always watch them, every lick of salt, for who knows, who knows—

But Tom is far too distracted by how Little may be perceiving him in that moment: if he appears proper; he wishes he’d been found performing a lighter duty. His apron is stained despite his best efforts, he knows, and the piece of cloth keeping his hair out of his reddened face is far from flattering. Little looks at him like he sees something entirely different. What’s that emotion on his face? It’s odd: it looks like hope.

“You have—” he says, reaching for Tom’s face, then dropping his hand. The intent is clear, however: he must’ve gotten flour on his nose.

“Pardon me, sir,” Tom says, wiping it on his forearm. The gesture is shamefully inelegant, an old habit he should be fighting, but he has no hope to get his handkerchief without getting flour on his trousers too. “If only my nose weren’t so big, it wouldn’t get caught in everything,” he jokes to divert from his clumsiness.

“Your nose is adorable,” Little says.

Tom pauses.

His heart clenches. (So does his bum.)

It’s not just the compliment, but the way it was delivered: Little sounds offended and upset that Tom would think his nose anything less than cute.

“Thank you, sir,” he says, keeping his voice light and chipper. If only they were in private—the remark wasn’t overheard, he’s certain of that, there’s too much chatter around them and Mr. Diggle is occupied with something sizzling loudly, but Little’s face drains of colour anyway: Tom wonders if he will swoon.

“I meant no disrespect,” Little chokes out.

“None was detected, sir.”

“I merely observed that your nose, on the face of a lady, would be generally—appealing.”

Tom schools his features before the curve of his smile would dip.

He understands the necessity of diverting the compliment. Little cannot risk being called a Mary-Anne, and yet—if the compliment was meant in earnest, moreover, if it was his habit to go to the hold to bugger a ready arse, Tom really wishes he would leave the charade. He fancied they had an understanding—but maybe he hoped in vain.

“My mother will be pleased to hear, sir,” he says, tone kept mild. Little looks confused, so he adds, “I’ve got her nose, and all her features: imagine me in a bonnet and petticoats, and you’ll have a good picture of her.”

The mention of underskirts adds a new colour to Little’s pallour: bright red, burning on the tip of his ears.

“She must be a fine woman,” he says, and rushes away, leaving Tom in the usual confusion of flirtation and denial.

* * *

The breakfast service drains Tom almost as much as the notable effort of trying not to look at Little. He forgoes reading his gestures; his anxious expressions; his constant signalling for his cup to be filled until it’s spilling over, but all that’s whispered is _thank you, Mr. Jopson_ and _sorry_. Tom knows not what to make of it. The officers get caught up in a lengthy discussion after the table is cleared; Tom has half a mind to save himself some time and do the dishes while his services are not required, but then Mr. Hoar cocks a brow at him and makes a gesture, touching his fingers to his lips.

Tom is relieved to follow him to the main deck. His head is spinning: it must be cleared. It wouldn’t do to be dizzy while handling fine china. The wet boards groan under their steps as they make their way up the ladder. There’s a nippy gale: it carries a fine spray of saltwater to their face. Tom finds it refreshing, but Hoar frowns, and mutters something about his matches.

They light their cigarettes in companionable silence, interrupted only by the toss of the waves and the occasional shouts of the sailors high up on the masts. Tom glances at his companion, the wind in his dark hair, his thick whiskers. It occurs to him that his Christian name, Edmund, starts with an E. It’s highly unlikely that a captain’s steward could find the time to sneak into the hold of another ship to shag and dole out handkerchiefs, but perhaps Sir John has a peculiar schedule which leaves Hoar time for sweet sodomy. Should Tom give up hope, exchange an Edward for an Edmund? Maybe it’d be easier; but thick-headed as Lieutenant Little may be, Tom loves him.

God help him, he loves him.

“Can’t wait to run out of fucking tea,” Hoar grumbles, pocketing his half-sodden leaf of matches.

“Wouldn’t hold my breath,” Tom says. “Just did storage, and—”

“ _Don’t_ tell me the numbers. Jesus Christ. All of them prefer it steeped differently.”

Tom shrugs easily; his jacket strains against the casual gesture. “If I could choose, I’d get fancy with it too.”

“Remind me never to sign up under your picky arse if you make lieutenant.” Hoar blows a perfect circle.

“That’s a laugh,” Tom scoffs; gets his cigarette between a thumb and two fingers, and tries to imitate Hoar. He quite envies his carefree rapport, how easily he can slip back to his original accent, drop his stiff posture. Being near him reminds Tom of London: sitting on the kitchen’s steps after dinner service, sharing gossip and the occasional bottle with the other servants. It’s different, here; he has responsibilities, and dangers lurking.

Maybe Little is right.

Maybe one should be more careful.

“How’s your hole?” Hoar asks, making Tom cough.

“Pardon?”

“The hole in the hold,” Hoar says; he gives no indication that he knows of Tom’s recent nocturnal activities. He’s staring out at the sea, a gleaming blue-green today. “Quite the topic on _Erebus_.”

Tom smiles to himself, takes another drag. The smoke burns down his throat; the ache of it is quite pleasant—reminds him of swallowing his friend’s prick, being breathless with it. Oh, he’s so wonderfully thick! “Wish you had a hole like that?” he teases.

“Please, we have something far better.”

“Do tell.”

Hoar does.

By the end of the telling, Tom is blushing profoundly. “You don’t do anything by half measures, do you?”

“Not on _Erebus_.” Hoar looks Tom over, smirking at the sight of his flushed cheeks. Tom adjusts his hair self-consciously. “You should’ve volunteered for us.”

“I like _Terror_ better.” The ship groans, as if in answer: the complaint of an old lady. _Erebus_ sails far ahead, proud and gay.

“Nonsense,” Hoar says.

“I like her Captain; he has an amiable character—punctual, predictable.”

“Tad grumpy.” Seeing Tom’s look, Hoar adds, “Excuse me.”

“He’s witty too,” Tom insists, somewhat sternly. “Can’t stand a captain without humour. Bloody bore.”

“Witty? Him?”

“Rather.” Tom takes a definitive drag from his cigarette, and considers the matter settled. His judgement should be trusted.

“Not exactly cracking jokes, is he?” Hoar asks after a beat.

Tom exhales with an air of exasperation. “Used to, with Captain Ross. Stayed up the whole night laughing, long after I'd been dismissed. I could hear them in my cabin.”

Hoar wiggles an eyebrow rather rudely, and grins.

“Not like that,” Tom adds. Clears his throat.

“You sure?”

“You learn when to take a walk.”

“You do,” Hoar admits, and flicks the ash from his cigarette ruefully. Tom gapes at him.

“Sir John?” he asks, even though he’d rather not know.

“Fuck, never. Can you imagine?”

“Fitzjames?” 

“Possibly; Bridgens is not talking.”

“Busy with his own—”

“Oh, yeah, for sure. For sure.”

Tom sighs. Fancy Bridgens’ luck; maybe if Tom wasn’t so keen on a nice uniform, he could secure a sweetheart as well. (There’s been offers.) It’s silly to think that Little would want to keep him. That he’d take Tom on his next voyage, much less take him home.

“Officers?” Hoar asks lazily, smoke curling from his lips.

“Irving.”

“Little?”

“You think...?” Tom asks, trying not to sound too hopeful. (In his mind’s eye, he’s still seeing a neat cottage, the gate open and Little walking the garden, a tad confused as to how he’s ended up in Tom’s daydreams.)

“It’s always the repressed ones,” Hoar concludes. He throws away the butt of his cigarette. Tom makes a face at that: he shall remember to clean it up later.

“Le Vesconte,” Tom counters.

“It’s mostly the repressed ones,” Hoar corrects.

“Do you think there’s something in the navy that attracts…” Tom trails off; swallows the smoke.

“Our kind?”

“Uh-huh.” 

“Do you get buggered on land?”

“As if.”

“That’s my point.” Hoar gets another cigarette, contemplates it, then puts it behind Tom’s ear. “Nowhere else you can make your pick.” He lifts Tom’s chin; his thumb caresses the side of his face as Tom weathers his gaze. “Suck you off in the pantry?”

“No, thank you.”

“Suit yourself.” Hoar drops his hand. After a beat, he asks, “Got somebody, then?”

Tom is silent.

“Word of advice,” Hoar says, “don’t fall in love, eh?”

“That’s good advice,” Tom says, morose. Hoar pats him on the shoulder, and takes leave with that; no point in wasting time on him anymore, Tom supposes. He rubs his arm, glances at the horizon. The sky is blinding bright. Tom turns his back to the view, walks to the mainmast, straining his ear for the bell. He’s not being called back just yet.

He wonders if he should’ve taken Hoar’s offer.

Isn’t it laughable, to be a steward with such high standards? That no one else will do, just the first lieutenant of the expedition, whom he suspects to be his secret friend from the hold? Oh, now he wishes they weren’t the same person: that he’d given himself over to Helpman, Lawrence or Genge, anyone but Little, for that man will leave him heartbroken, Tom is certain.

(He said his nose was adorable.)

He took the compliment back under the same breath—that’s what should be remembered, for it gives a better insight to his character. Nevertheless, Tom lets himself feel anguished and dejected for a moment, and rubs his eyes, then his nose.

“Ahoy,” Little says. Tom spooks; he looks around, but the lieutenant is nowhere. Has he lost his wits, to hear disembodied voices? _This is why one shall never submit to distress,_ he chides himself, but then he hears Little again. “Up here.”

Tom cranes his neck to stare up the mast, and sure enough, Little sits perched atop the topsail yard. Huddlen in his coat like that, he’s the perfect image of a sullen raven. Even with his legs dangling, he looks and sounds wretched when he says, “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

Tom shields his eyes from the faint sun, and beams. He can’t help it.

“I see you enjoy company just as much as Captain Crozier, sir,” he says.

He can just about make out the frown Little makes. He reaches inside his coat as he notes, “I’m afraid I had to flee the scene, Mr. Jopson. As you may have observed, I’m not very apt at conversation. I wanted to apologise for my awkward remarks earlier, in fact.” He gets a pipe, but hesitates to light it, his attention focused on Tom below.

Tom bows his head, to put him at ease. “You didn’t make me feel uncomfortable, sir.”

“But have I upset you, Mr. Jopson?” Little asks, so earnest it makes Tom’s heart ache. _Not for the reason you suppose,_ Tom thinks. His mouth is dry; he wets his lips.

“Be assured that all injuries are forgiven, sir,” he says, summoning a blithe air to great effect: Little smiles at him—it’s momentary; just a flash of his teeth, gone as soon as they are seen, like lightning, but joy thunders through Tom’s veins.

Little frets with his pipe, as if contemplating something, then says, “Take your leisure to smoke that cigarette; I don’t think you’ll be needed below for quite a while—Sir John is taking his time to address...certain repairs.”

Tom touches the cigarette behind his ear; he’s quite forgotten about it. (Is Little naturally attentive, or is he paying attention to Tom alone?)

“Does smoking so high up improve the experience, sir?” he ventures to ask, tone friendly. He dearly wishes to be friends, if they cannot be anything else.

“I’d suggest trying it yourself, if you’re so inclined,” Little says, then adds so lightly Tom barely hears him, “Provided you don’t mind the poor company.”

Tom grabs for the shrouds blindly. His sailor days are long behind him: the last time he climbed a mast, he ended up with a broken leg, discharged from service. He still has the scar to show for it. The rope is rough and wet against his palm, its touch now unfamiliar, but he keeps his eyes on the prize.

Poor company—like hell; he can only hope Little realises that he wouldn’t do climbing exercises for just any man. Once he reaches the lubber’s hole, the climb gets trickier—but Little rushes to his help. He hangs on a rope as he reaches for Tom, pipe in his mouth, and the hair curling out from under his cap ruffled by the wind.

Tom wants to swoon into his arms, which is unwise.

His wish is nearly fulfilled, for Edward pulls him up then clasps his waist, encouraging Tom to cling.

“There we go, Mr. Jopson,” he says. “It wasn’t too bad, I hope?”

Tom shivers and trembles. (Maybe he’d fallen to his death, and this is Heaven?) Little settles the both of them down on the yard, feet dangling in the air. Tom pulls closer, seeing it, and Little lets him: keeps his arm wrapped around his waist for stability. He’s solid and wonderfully warm, the only stable point in the hazy world of grey and blue.

“ _Now_ I need a cigarette,” Tom mutters, reaching for the one Hoar had tucked behind his ear.

Edward chuckles, but even that sounds sombre. “Please tell me you’re not afraid of heights?”

“Wouldn’t know, sir,” Tom says. “I’m usually ground-level.” He lights the cigarette with slightly trembling hands, chafed by the ropes.

“I wanted to show you...” Little says; trails off; adds, in a quite neutral tone, “The view is quite breathtaking.”

“It is, sir,” Tom says; he notices that Little’s pipe is unlit, still. Offers the match with a question in his eyes; Little nods, leans in to catch the flame.

They could kiss like this.

Tom deserves a kiss for this frightful feat.

Little has a most alluring scent: the rich tobacco, the wool of his coat, beard oil, and shaving soap mix into a fragrance so singularly masculine it makes Tom’s cock thicken and ache. He crosses his legs to disguise his cockstand, but the action nearly topples him off-balance; Little pulls him closer. Tom’s shoulder is pressed to his chest, Little’s hand a comforting weight over his waist. The man sips on his pipe while grumbling some reassurance. Tom drinks in the sight of his puckered lips. (Remembers the sensation of his friend tasting him.) Keeps looking at Little as he sucks on the cigarette, cheeks hollow.

Little grips him ever so tightly. “If I may make a remark?” he says, in the tone he only uses to address Tom: warm, affable.

“Yes, sir?”

“It’d be amiss of me not to compliment your walnut bread.”

“Mm,” Tom says, glancing at Little’s lips again, then back to his eyes, which burn like embers. “Were they to your liking, then?”

Smoke curls from Little’s lips as he announces, “Exactly my preference.”

Tom’s heart skips a beat, but his tone is mild. “I’m glad to hear that, sir.”

“You must leave me the recipe,” Little goes on, “so my sisters can make it for me.”

“No Mrs. Little to bake you breakfast, sir?” Tom asks, as if he hadn’t checked Little’s marital status the day he first saw him, whiskers trimmed, a serious look on his face, collar stiff and the buttons of his uniform gleaming. (He’s only got more dashing with the wear of travel, which is decidedly unfair.)

“I’m a bachelor,” Little says.

Again, Tom is tempted to kiss him.

He shan’t.

He mustn’t read too much into the situation: he might be in Little’s arms, but only for safety; sharing a smoke, but merely as friends; and there are several reasons Little could be unmarried—the appeal of his age, rank, pedigree and beauty notwithstanding.

( _Perhaps he’s a widower,_ Tom decides, yet still, he cannot resist envisioning himself as Little’s comfort, a young lad to warm his cold bed, mend his grieving heart with caresses.)

“If you learnt the recipe,” Tom says, measured, “you needn’t rely on female company, sir.”

“Me?” Little asks, so shocked he chokes on the fragrant smoke.

“Baking is quite simple,” Tom says in a placating tone.

“I know not what happens in ovens,” Little says, expression haunted, and coughs again. Tom rubs his back, too lightly to be of any help; Little arches into his palm for a moment.

“Think of it as chemistry, sir,” Tom advises, rubbing his spine with a firmer hand. “You only need to have the right amount of ingredients, dry and wet, mixed separately, then together, then put into the oven to reach the desired temperature.”

Little looks him over. Tom attempts to look amiable; Little’s glance is considering, gentle, yet some alarm lingers. “I don’t have your lithe hands,” he says.

Tom scoffs; makes it as soft and polite as he can. “Sir,” he says, “I dare say the size of our hands is not very different.”

Little’s gaze drops to Tom’s lap, to see for himself; Tom is quick to raise a hand, and moves his fingers to distract Little from the hard length of his cock barely obscured by the clever folds of his clothes. Little is slow to react , and when he looks up, his brows are furrowed and his eyes are darkened. He regards Tom’s hand only for a moment, then seeks his glance as he takes off his own gloves.

Little touches his naked fingers to Tom’s.

Tom swallows a sigh.

Their hands are a perfect reflection of each other, both strong and deft—only Tom’s is roughened by chores, and Little’s is dotted by ink.

“You’re quite right, Mr. Jopson,” he says, not taking his hand back. He’s so close their foreheads nearly brush together: when did he get nearer? Tom’s eyes skim over his face as he tries to focus on him. What he notices is the question in Little’s eyes, asking something unutterable, the shadow of stubble, the berth of his shoulders, and lower, lower—perhaps his cockstand, maybe he aches for Tom like Tom aches for him, and maybe they’ve already found relief for it in the belly of the ship, rutting spit-wet cocks together and sharing the gift of their spend.

Tom steals a glance at Little’s lap. There’s a bulge, but it’s impossible to be exact—oh, if only he were allowed—if only he could undo the flap, take Little’s cock in hand, observe if there’s familiarity there, in the look and feel and the sounds Little makes, if they’re the same animal grunts his secret friend utters; if he could straddle his lap, right here, guide his cock within and see if he stretches and fills him as well as his friend!

(It’d be enough to know that the bulge is not from a sextant.)

Little links their fingers. Squeezes Tom’s hand, then drops it with a smile that seems apologetic, except he leans closer, as if he misses the contact already and says, voice gravelly, “I could be no match to you; you’re sweet, thus you make sweet things.”

“No, sir; it’s about experience.”

Little cocks his head. He didn’t expect to be corrected, Tom is certain; a smile spreads on Little’s face, slow, bashful. “Are you quite experienced, then?”

(Maybe he only talks in this raspy tone thanks to the tobacco; maybe he only holds him close to support Tom; there are so many explanations beyond attraction, for Tom was given no solid clue besides fleeting glances and innuendo—)

“Don’t you know, sir?” Tom says, sliding his cigarette back between his lips. “Have you not familiarized yourself with my credentials?”

Little frowns, confused but— _oh_ —when he exhales he slides his hand further down Tom’s back, as if the smoke would conceal them and he could pretend it’s an accident his hand comes to rest just above the curve of Tom’s arse. “I know that you excel in service,” he says cautiously.

Tom wishes he could arch his back so Little’s hand would slip ever lower. (What if it is an accident?)

“I know you’re a careful man,” he says, “but I’d say we’re rather familiar with each other.” _Perhaps more familiar than proper_ , he thinks to add, but shan’t.

“Do you think—” Little begins, but he is interrupted by a shout down the deck.

“Mr. Jopson!” Gibson calls; he has a packed plate with him, the sight of which makes Tom hiss.

“Missed the bell,” he says, and jumps up more swiftly than he should—he needs to sweep his arms in the air to regain his balance, which is most inelegant. (He’d take a worse fall to fulfill his duty. He _did_.) Little steadies him by gripping his leg, and maybe it’s just been about that, securing someone under his command, and if Little is starved for touch, it doesn’t mean that—

“Should you need anything, you know where to find me,” Little says, glancing up at him, his eyes uncertain but his jaw set, devastatingly handsome and maybe not completely unreachable.

Tom can only give him a parting nod.

 _Later_.

* * *

He waits out the usual hour of the secret rendez-vous, settling for catnaps only in the interim. Little and him had no chance to converse after lunch or supper; but he knows where to find him, indeed.

The ladder down the hold is steep. (He imagines climbing it with Little: he’d support him like he supported his climb to the mast; from up to below, Tom would follow if Little beckoned.) He sees a lantern burning in the coal room: his heart hammers in his throat as he approaches with his single candle, placing one foot directly in front of another as if he walked on the yard.

He shall be brave enough, and address his friend tonight.

There are two possible outcomes.

First: it is Little.

Second: it isn’t; and in that case, his friend’s identity doesn’t matter. Hoar’s offer was good for one thing—to help Tom realise that he cares not for pleasure if it’s not given by Little. If it’s some other man, he’ll end the arrangement. He’ll be kind and discreet, and they shall swear mutual security. He won’t even give a parting kiss, cruel as that seems. If there’s a chance, the slightest chance to seduce Little, he shall focus his attention there.

The light burns brighter.

He thinks of what he’s going to say. _Good evening_. His voice might be recognised; it may not be. (Not many people hear him speak.) If Little responds, he’s going to confess, _I hoped it would be you, sir_.

_I hoped it’s been you all along._

He stops by the coalroom. Raises his fist to the door. Knocks.

There’s no response, but there’s a sound. A dull thud. Not like a fist, more like—

Tom furrows his brows, and knocks again.

“It’s open,” a lazy voice says.

It’s not Little.

He should turn back.

 _God blind me,_ he thinks, _it has never been him; I’ve been a fool, I’ve been—_

He said he’d end this. That’s the right thing to do, the only correct curse of action. He bites his lip, bold, reaches for the lock and swings the door open, ready to face a terrible mistake.

(His face is flushed; he cannot help it.)

The first thing he notices is a wooden toolbox.

The second is Mr. Hickey, the caulker’s mate.

There’s a moment of horror there—but it’s impossible that Hickey would be his friend: first of all, he is a ginger; his name is Cornelius, if memory serves; and he could only position himself in the hole on his tiptoes. Tom frowns at him before schooling his features. Hickey’s face is jovial: he’s squatting on the ground like a toad with a fly on its tongue.

Tom doesn’t like the way he’s looking at him. Knowing.

“Good evening,” Tom says, just as planned. (Nothing else is like he planned.) “Rather unusual time for repairs.”

“Rather unusual time for…” Hickey gestures at him, trails off.

“I have orders to patrol the hold,” Tom says, the lie tripping from his tongue easily; discretion and dishonesty are twins—he learnt it from none other than Captain Crozier.

“I have orders,” Hickey says, “to fix this hole.” He taps the gaping opening. Damn it: maybe Tom has risked too much when he widened it to fit his torso, he just—well—he wanted a shag.

He was rather desperate for it, in fact.

He supposes a man like Hickey would not appreciate his creativity. There are unspoken rules about these things. Etiquette. He breached it in his hunger.

“At dawn,” Tom says.

“For discretion,” Hickey chirps. He sounds awfully jolly, as if he was chuckling on a private joke of sorts. Tom can guess the source of his humour. Would he be believed, if he tried to spread the gossip? But no: Hickey is not the sort of man to spread information at his leisure. His gaze says that he prefers secrets nestled close to his chest. Like birds in cages, released only when convenient.

Tom has no patience to be blackmailed. “I haven’t been informed about these repairs,” he says. “I’ll need to confirm your orders with Captain Crozier.”

The name does have an effect; the threat doesn’t. Hickey tilts his head. “Curious,” he says. “Lieutenant Irving came to me directly after breakfast with the orders.”

Tom’s stomach sinks, but he tries to appear collected. “I haven’t been informed,” he repeats.

“I thought Lieutenant Little and you had a conversation about it?” Hickey says, blinking innocently. He gets to his feet, dusts his knees rather pointedly, smirking. “You were sharing a smoke, I’m told.”

“I thought,” Tom counters, cold, “that Lieutenant Irving would be more careful whom he meets, and where.”

Hickey’s smile widens, showing too-white teeth. It’s rare to see a man who enjoys being threatened, but whatever game he plays, Tom has no interest in learning the rules.

“Lieutenants!” Hickey says, in a tone offensively familiar, and shrugs. “You know what they are like.”

Tom doesn’t deign that with a reply. He lets his distaste show on his face, takes his leave wordlessly. Let Hickey feel like he triumphed. Defeating him is not Tom’s goal: he needs to win Little over.

One hole closes.

Another opens.

He has a plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fine. I lied. It’s not exactly five+one times. The fic was pre-drafted and everything, but I just couldn’t make the structure work. We’re in uncharted territory. How many hookups will there be? Four? Twenty?
> 
> The last chapter goes up next Saturday!


	5. Edward

Edward despairs. He waited and waited, but Jopson didn’t come visit him in his cabin. He sat, miserable and forsaken on his berth, until his candle spat black smoke and melted. Every step overheard in the dark sent his hope aflutter; when no knock came, his heart fell like a wounded bird.

His sour mood lingers. He can still taste salt on his lips from the seabreeze, sees Jopson sitting close to him, the pair of them perched on the mast like love doves; Edward thought they had cleared up their doubts at last, but then what is he to make of this lone night? Around the second dogwatch, he became tempted to check the hold—but it was too much to hope he would find Jopson there. His stranger would be there, with sweet consolation, no doubt, but what use? Edward had let him down, too: made him wait needlessly while he longed for another man in the confines of his cabin. What could he do but want Jopson? He’s desirable. What could he do but love him? He’s adorable. No man will ever compare, never mind their erotic talents.

He skips breakfast. He hasn’t the stomach. He haunts the main deck like a spectre of refused love. His anguish is so complete it seems strange that it doesn’t eclipse the sun. This day should be dark like the blackest night. No moon, no starshine—certainly not their Polaris; oh, it was silly, to pin his hopes to it! Why would he choose something so unreachable for their love? They’re doomed now; Tom wants him not.

But perhaps—he was merely scared, or withheld? Maybe he wanted to visit, but hadn’t the liberty. Oh, let it be all a misunderstanding! He shall speak to him presently—unless he’d disturb him? If Jopson avoided him deliberately, it would be rude to impose; to harass him with questions when Edward has already received an answer: a polite no, a tender refusal. He should accept it with solemn dignity; but there’s doubt still, and hope—he heard Sir John say once that the men of the Discovery Service were made of it. He feels it acutely, for beyond the clouds of sorrow, the star of hope shines on.

He follows its direction. It leads him not to Jopson’s cabin (a sanctuary he should not disgrace unless invited), but down to the hold, this Hades, where he comes bringing the blooming flowers of love like Eurydice. Let them wither if his Orpheus will never call for him. His stranger won’t be there, not at this hour: of that, he is certain. In his absence, he might find answers.

He descends the ladder into the velveteen darkness. It’s similar to going downstairs in the manor of his youth to find some solitude in the basement; later, pleasure—for was it not that underground empire where he first had an opportunity to explore himself undisturbed? It was the servants’ domain: how he feared that he might be found—what thrill the idea gave him! He wonders briefly if this fact of his psychological development led him to where he is presently—if he was destined to love stewards. But no; he doesn’t love them all; it’s only Mr. Jopson. He barely notices the rest, never did—they’re shadows on the wall, enchanted spirits who soundlessly make feasts appear—he lived in a relative ignorance of their existence until he noticed Jopson and his dimples, until the man made him long for something he can never have: a husband. Someone to wait for him at home...but Jopson is a man: he wouldn’t have to be abandoned.

Edward dreams about their American voyages again as he walks to the storage room. To bring Jopson home, sun-kissed and wind-chafed, call him his valet but gift him a golden ring, one Jopson could wear around his neck to match Edward’s, to remind him of the truth: they are one. Edward would propose to him under the Southern sun.

The floor creaks under his heavy boots, but he thinks of being barefoot on the beach. The room is predictably empty, yet he thinks of Jopson within (his _Thomas_ ), and mistakes the thudding of the engine for the beat of his heart.

It halts.

The hole is caulked up.

It’s a shoddy job, the tar splattered, but it’s unmistakably the work of a caulker, which means that an officer’s patience had ended, that someone important wanted it closed finally. There will be no reopening, he’s sure of it. The risk would be more than lashing.

He walks to the bulkhead to touch the planks. He feels relieved, in an odd way: his stranger will see this too, perhaps already did; Edward won’t have to cast him aside—this is goodbye. But there’s grief too: a proper farewell was owed. He’ll never know his stranger now; when he tells about him to Jopson (one day, he’ll have to, if there’s any hope), he’ll be anonymous: not out of discretion but ignorance. Edward regrets that. The stranger was perfect. If Edward’s heart didn’t belong to Jopson, he’d have placed it at the stranger’s feet. He wouldn’t have stomped on it. He was gentle, responsive, talented; the incarnation of male desire. Unknown as he was, everything about him reminded Edward of his own identity: for the stranger was exactly what he wanted, from the first moment he knew desire.

His finger catches on something. For a moment, he thinks it’s a splinter—that like Sleeping Beauty, he’ll be marked on his fingertip for touching something forbidden—but no: it’s the edge of a paper, tucked between the planks. He pulls out the folded letter, ready for another verse from the Scripture, for holy men from centuries ago telling him in Irving’s voice, _I told you so._

It’s not Irving’s handwriting at all. It hardly looks like writing: the letters are deliberately awkward, and tilted at the wrong angle, as if someone wrote them with his left hand so the writing wouldn’t be recognisable. Edward licks his lips, and begins to read.

_Dearest E, when you are next Summonned to the Gates of Hell, say ‘Sha-zam’ - Sincererely yours, Your Friend_

He turns the page, but the back is blank.

* * *

The letter burns Edward’s pocket as he enters the Great Cabin. He’s in a cold sweat, and his hand is trembling. While confusion may cloud all else, this much is clear: the letter is for him. The code is evident: he’s expected on _Erebus_. Who was the sender? That mystery is unresolved. The careless spelling indicates a sailor. To that, the location of the rendez-vous casts doubt: why _Erebus_? Only officers can visit her at will, and who among them would set up a date like this?

Edward’s gaze finds Irving sitting by the table, and he knows with a dawning certainty that the stranger has always been him. Not to say he’s not good looking, but—here, Edward’s eyes travel up to the man standing behind Irving to refill his cup. Jopson finds his gaze, and smiles.

The letter feels like it’s made of lead now.

“Ah, Edward!” Crozier says, entering behind him. Edward turns to salute, and notices that Crozier is putting on gloves. “We missed you at breakfast.”

“Lost my appetite,” Edward lies. _I was too sad to ea_ t is too embarrassing to admit.

“Find it quick: I’m sure there’ll be biscuits.” He walks to the wall to fetch his hat; Jopson is faster, and gets it before Crozier can. “We’re visiting _Erebus_.”

Edward gulps. He licks his lips, pointedly avoiding Irving’s gaze. Jopson is enough of a distraction: he’s looking at Edward over Crozier’s shoulder while securing his hat.

“ _Erebus_ , sir?” Edward blurts; he has no hope to sound neutral.

“Jopson reminded me that we may want to be present where Sir John recieves his first ice reading of these regions; to help him put the report in perspective, you see.” He smirks, and steps into his private cabin. Jopson gives an urgent glance to Edward, who takes the opportunity to turn his back to Irving. They had some fun, apparently, but Edward is not going to accept his frivolous invitation—

Jopson looks on.

Edward wipes a hand over his face, hoping there’s nothing caught in his whiskers. “I shall remain on _Terror_ , sir,” he says. “Mind her in your absence.”

“Nonsense; you’re needed. John can shoulder the burden.”

Edward risks a glance at him, confused. If Irving is to remain here, why would he—

Jopson is still staring. The moment Edward looks back, he averts his gaze.

“What help would I be, sir?” Edward asks.

“You shall distract Commander Fitzjames so he doesn’t mouth off while I have a word with Sir John,” Crozier says, heading out. “You’re an apt listener of his stories: he’ll suspect nothing if you draw him away.”

“Sir,” Edward bows. When he straightens, he catches sight of Jopson again, who steps up to him swiftly. The door is narrow: Edward should give him room, but he can’t pull away, not when Jopson’s attention is on him, intent and probing.

“Do you need help dressing, sir?” he asks, soft-spoken as ever. Edward’s gaze lingers on his lips without meaning it: full and pink, the curve of them far too tempting; back to his eyes, green in this light and the pupils wide.

“No, thank you, I’ll just put on a coat,” Edward blabbers. He can tell from the way Jopson’s eyelashes flicker that it was the wrong answer. He licks his lips, agitated; he wishes to correct himself, to invite Jopson to his cabin, _remind him_ that the invitation stands, but they’d be overheard—Irving is looking at the pair of them, tea abandoned.

Jopson puts a hand to Edward’s chest. He tries not to react, but cannot resist drawing in a sharp breath. Jopson’s strong hand is over his heart: he must feel it beat, pump blood uselessly in the rhythm of his name.

“We should look our smartest, sir,” Jopson says, tapping a finger over where Edward’s pocket is hidden. “Remember, please, that the folds of a handkerchief can ruin the line of your waistcoat.” He drops his hand in a caress that almost looks like an accident.

“Oh,” Edward says.

_Oh._

* * *

So the stranger is Mr. Jopson.

* * *

He has buggered Mr. Jopson.

Frigged his cock.

Sucked him off.

* * *

It was Mr. Jopson.

* * *

It cannot be—but his touches, the gazes, all that talk about handkerchiefs—Edward is staring at him during the boatride, although he knows he shouldn’t. Jopson had been so careful not to give himself away that not even _Edward_ noticed. Jopson is seated behind the captain, holding onto his cap as the wind tosses his dark hair, pinkens his cheeks. He’s looking at the roll of the waves. Edward feels seasick for the first time in decades.

He has no idea how to contain this excitement.

If he could, he would jump into the ocean to swim back to England, run down the streets and scream, _he loves me (I think)._

_I have reasons to suspect it was him._

Edward watches him climb the ladder up _Erebus_ , and all doubt is diminished. That little arse is unmistakable; the long legs, the strong body—Edward burns with shame that he knows exactly how Jopson looks unclothed, but has no idea what his face is like in the rapture of pleasure.

Jopson extends him a hand to help him climb, and the look he gives Edward tells him he’s about to find out all he wants to know.

He walks on clouds. He follows his angel into Heaven, except he seriously doubts he’d be let into God’s kingdom in his current condition, which involves a heart full of filthy hopes and a very erect cock. To watch Jopson _walk—_ how his coat swings around his hips, how it hugs him, the wool caressing his thighs as he shifts. Edward wants to be his coat, and all his clothes, he wants to cling to him and keep him warm.

They’re welcomed into the Great Cabin, where both of them must see to their duties. Jopson rushes to help Hoar (he’s so good, so diligent and attentive) while Edward seeks out Fitzjames, spread out on a bench luxuriously. He’s so busy glaring at Crozier Edward needs to clear his throat to be acknowledged.

“Good morning, Lieutenant.” Fitzjames lights up, sensing an eager audience. Edward can hear that Crozier has skipped pleasantries and is talking about the ice already with characteristically catastrophic diplomacy.

“I wish to talk to you in private, sir,” Edward says, blocking Fitzjames’ view of Crozier as if that could help. The shifted position also gives him an unobscured look at Jopson, who’s talking to Hoar in hushed tones as they set the table.

“Your wish may be granted after this little meeting,” Fitzjames says graciously. If it were up to Edward, he’d bow and accept, retreat to the desk and drown his embarrassment for intruding in tea; but he must be brave for his Captain—for Jopson, too—and push on.

“The matter is urgent, sir, and rather discreet,” he says. Fitzjames scowls at him. Edward attempts to project some authority and look like a man who shan’t be dismissed, back straight, chest puffed, but he knows all too well that his eyes must be desperate—he cannot for the life of him think of an urgent matter, besides the one occupying his private thoughts—his rendez-vous with Jopson; how could he think of anything else? His mind is a parade, with a choir singing Thomas Jopson’s name.

“Come along, then,” Fitzjames says with the indulgence of a parent who likes to look stern. He gets up, rights his uniform; signals to Sir John, glowers at Crozier once more, then leads Edward out. Edward looks back from the threshold to find Jopson watching. If only he were allowed to smile at him! His lips curl faintly, and he sees that Jopson notices. His smile only widens, then, as he brings his attention back to Fitzjames, who stands with his arms crossed over his chest.

“Excuse me, sir,” Edward says, and schools his features. He looks down at his hands, as if they could give him some guidance. “ _Erebus_ is a fine ship,” he says, stalling.

“Gorgeous old girl,” Fitzjames agrees. “I hope you don’t hold it against me that I assigned you _Terror_?”

“No, not at all,” Edward says, realising too late that he was given an excellent opportunity to come up with a topic. His mind races, trying to think of anything else but Jopson and his brilliant eyes, Jopson and his laughter, Jopson and the way he adjusts his hair, Jopson’s cock (it was his very prick!), Jopson and his message— He licks his lips. “I’ve been informed,” he says, “that _Erebus_ welcomes the...discerning gentleman, whether he’s part of her crew or not.”

“Indeed,” Fitzjames says flatly. He glances back at the Great Cabin, where Sir John’s raised voice is heard.

“All I mean to say is, sir,” Edward frets, “is, well, I believe the expression is— _shazam_.” 

Fitzjames’ features change so abruptly Edward is certain he miscalculated: what else could he mention but the letter? That’s why he’s here; and Fitzjames had been so gracious and accepting when he talked of the hole at _Clio_!

“Lieutenant Little,” Fitzjames says, mildly amused. He puts a hand on Edward’s shoulder, who goes rigid immediately. “I’m much flattered, but I think you’re too young for me.”

Edward stares at him. “Sir?” He should’ve known it was a codeword. “I, er. I’m thirty-four.”

“Too young,” Fitzjames repeats, and pats his shoulder gently.

Edward cannot help his blush. “I have, ah. I actually have a date set up, sir.”

“Ah,” Fitzjames sighs, much relieved, and draws back his hand. “Have you been our guest before?”

“Not in this capacity, sir.”

“Well, then: you’re looking for a supply closet under the hold’s ladder. This week’s code is four knocks; if you find it occupied, be a gentleman and wait until the next bell. When you enter, you must cover your eyes with your neckerchief, and not speak—common courtesy; should someone force himself on you, let me know—I do take these matters very seriously. I will not partake in lover’s quarrels, however, and orgies are disencouraged. Ship’s boys are not allowed. The establishment, such as our lover’s closet is, cannot be visited in a drunken or unclean state. Should you contract something, you will report to Lieutenant Le Vesconte. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Edward says, mind reeling. Jopson exits just at this minute, not even sparing them a glance. Edward cannot help looking after him; Fitzjames pats his face.

“This conversation never happened,” he tells him joyfully. Edward mutters his assent; Fitzjames turns on his heels and heads away, the meeting in the Great Cabin quite forgotten. Edward supposes he has urgent gossip to share with Le Vesconte; let him—in their eyes, Edward’s reputation won’t be tarnished. He waits a beat or two, then heads down to the hold.

He’s saluted at every turn while he’s awkwardly adjusting his clothing. Does everybody know? Surely not Sir John—maybe he should have been stationed at _Erebus_ , him and Jopson, Crozier as the captain—for he tolerated the hole’s existence, for whatever reason—and Fitzjames could be his commander; if Crozier were more patient with Fitzjames, indeed, he might come to like him very much, for there’s something in the two men that match, like lemon and sugar.

He runs his hand through his hair, then realises he shouldn’t have done that. Gibson spends a great amount of time combing him each morning, rather pointedly. Edward knows his hair gets far too shaggy: he cannot help it—and now he’ll arrive at their date all dishevelled! Oh, were they in a world where their love was free: Edward would arrive carrying bouquets and champagne, kiss Jopson at the cabin door, make love to him without worrying who might overhear. If only they were allowed to see eye to eye; how rough he’s been with him, not knowing whose mouth, cock and arse was his reward! He flushes to think how Jopson _behaved_ —how wanton, how eager; the poor dear, he must be starved for attention. Edward wants to shower him in his regard, show him how truly remarkable he is. Finding apt words is difficult sometimes; what a gift is, that he’s allowed to talk to him through touch, express what he yearns to utter: _Mr. Jopson, you’re dearly wanted_.

The hold welcomes him with a darkness and chill familiar from _Terror_. The steps creak under his weight: Jopson must hear him approaching. It’s so strange to think he will be there, waiting just for him; that they may come to each other’s arms, under the sea, then emerge as perfect strangers. He no longer wants that: he wishes to be Jopson’s good friend, to support and protect him, entertain to the best of his abilities, listen to his darling chatter, teach him whatever may be of interest, and never be ashamed of how warmly he regards him.

The door awaits: a gateway to a pleasure dome, hardly bigger than a broom closet. He holds his breath; there’s shuffling on the other side—but a greeting must be spared. He knocks four times, as instructed, and thinks, _shazam_.

Jopson knocks back.

How often he heard him rap on a door, and never thought that one day, he’ll knock to call on his company! He tugs at his neckerchief, fashions it to a blindfold. These are the rules, and rules must be followed. If Jopson wants no charade of anonymity, he will tell him, but Edward shan’t presume.

He locates the knob, staring into the darkness of the silk. His eyelashes brush against it as he blinks. He turns the knob slowly—if Jopson changed his mind, he should tell him; if he doesn’t want him anymore, he should let Edward know—but Jopson makes no sound of protest. Edward stumbles into the darkness, bereft, and bumps into Jopson.

He’s rewarded with a breathless chuckle.

Thrill and embarrassment rush through him. He pulls the door closed—the closet is so tight he’s pressed chest-to-chest with Jopson, and he can feel— _oh_ —the poke of his cock.

Is it really him? Edward must know: he reaches out, aiming for his arms, but grabs his shoulders instead—strong and wide, leading to an elegant neck—a soft, round face with a prominent chin, the stubble ticklish—a rather pointed nose—a blindfold. Jopson wants the rules to be observed, then: nothing must be said.

Jopson lays his hands over Edward’s chest, his touch almost demure. Edward grunts in encouragement—boorish, yes, but what else could he do? Jopson responds by sliding his palms under his open coat and fondling his chest, experimental, and Edward grunts again, longer, pleased—how did Jopson know he enjoys when his nipples are toyed with? But of course he would: he’s observant and smart, and can tell exactly what would best please polite company—no wonder he can guess Edward’s preferences!

He arches into Jopson’s hands, and nudges his thigh between his legs. Jopson moans, pinned to the wall; has Edward been a brute? But no: Jopson rubs himself over the offered leg while groping at Edward’s chest in earnest. Breathless gasps are shared, sounds so familiar they make Edward ache with want. If it were his stranger—just his stranger, with no name, no identity—Edward would begin undressing him, but this is Thomas Jopson. He has an instinct to be careful, even though Jopson seemed to enjoy rough treatment. He must know, however, that this is not all Edward wants: a tumble in the closet in the dark—indeed, that he’s held in high esteem—how magnificent he is—Edward must find a way to tell him.

He tilts his head, and pecks Jopson on the lips while nudging his cock with a knee. His probing is answered: Jopson parts his lips for him, lets him in. Edward kisses him with all his wretched love while Jopson rides his thigh, up and down, squeezing his chest with those nimble fingers which have already given Edward so much pleasure. Jopson is a much messier kisser than Edward imagined: while Edward is precise, practiced, following a plan, Jopson licks and nips at him with zeal, tongue, teeth, spit, like Edward is a meal that will be taken away, and thus must be gobbled up promptly.

Edward cups his face, guiding him to a slower rhythm—as much as he enjoys the enthusiasm—and Jopson, of course, excels at following directions. Edward shows him how to indulge in each pass of his tongue, the thrill of a delicate stroke over a direct attack, and feels him melt against his lips, hiccuping up desperate little gasps. The way he moves on Edward’s thigh gets erratic, his hands begin to slip from Edward’s chest—Edward recalls from earlier encounters that Jopson tends to be the one who finishes sooner: he’s younger, eager—it’s Edward’s responsibility to take good care of him.

He withdraws his thigh; Jopson whines, then bites off the sound—embarrassed, no doubt—Edward kisses him briefly in consolation, and cups his cock. Tom bucks into his palm: he won’t stop moving, writhing and twisting. Edward could spend hours like this, transfixed by the beauty of someone so poised becoming so restless under his hands. He could test how far he can push him, how to make him really squirm; their time, however, is limited. He undoes Jopson’s fly, grasps his cock—his pink little cock, a familiar companion—oh, he knows it, knows its shape, the heat of it, how to ease back the soft skin to reveal the blunt head, wet already, and smearing more slick over Edward’s hand as he strokes it. He buries his face in Jopson’s neck and inhales his scent as he pulls at him. His skin smells so clean; whatever Edward does to him, Jopson will remain pristine.

Jopson drops his hands from Edward’s chest to open the front of his trousers. It’s somewhat more complicated than his own attire, but he manages it with ease—Edward nearly congratulates him, but then remembers his place. He strokes Tom’s cock instead, hiding the shaft in a fist, running his thumb over the slick slit. It’s such a precious thing, and Edward is so very fond of it: he wants to guard it. His own member is revealed, monstrous in comparison: Jopson uses both hands to frig it, his tight fists moving in tandem. Edward’s knees buckle, and he all but falls forward. Jopson becomes inspired by his fumble: Edward can hear him spit into his hand, and then he presses their cocks together.

Oh, it’s divine; Edward groans, and bites down on Jopson’s shoulder to muffle the sound. He’s reduced to sensation, his prick throbbing with need as Jopson’s slick cock slides over it, rubs up against the underside until the tips kiss. Edward fucks into Jopson’s fist helplessly—his hand is not big enough to encircle both of them: so Edward grasps at their joined cocks, links his fingers with Jopson’s. He remembers comparing hands atop the topsail yard, and flushes. Did Jopson know then? Did he know it was Edward all along? At one point, they’ll have to talk—for now, they can only converse in the language of desire, and there’s so much to be said. Edward ruts into their hands, dragging his cock over Jopson’s, who’s panting openly now.

Edward is yearning to see him like this, raptured and dishevelled, but he can’t—Jopson didn’t say he could—unless he’s waiting for the command from Edward. After all, good Mr. Jopson is backed against a wall, under ravish onslaught by an engorged prick belonging to a superior, and seems to be enjoying it very much indeed. Only, from where Edward is standing, it’s worship: Jopson has supreme power over him, his angel, his prince; Edward will do all his bidding, but he must hear his orders and pleas.

“Mr. Jopson,” he says, a careful address, easily dismissed; but Jopson cants his hips and moans helplessly, his twitching length sliding over Edward’s.

“I wish you— _ah_ —called me Tom, sir—just once—only make it sound— _oh_ —like you’ve been saying it all along—”

“Tom,” Edward says, pouring all his emotions into it: the doubt, the conflict, his love, his yearning. His darling Tom cries out, collapsing against him: Edward holds him, holds him steady while Tom spends over them both, and Edward so desperately wants to look, wants to witness this moment, Tom’s bliss and joy— “Tom, please, Tom, let me see you—”

Tom trembles in his arms. He reaches up to tug at Edward’s blindfold. “Your _voice_ , sir,” he breathes, but doesn’t elaborate. The silk slips from Edward’s eyes, coming down around his throat. Tom holds it like a leash, and Edward doesn’t stop moving, doesn’t stop pleasing him; he’s Tom’s tamed beast. He takes off the neckerchief tied around Tom’s eyes to hold his gaze as he grinds his cock against Tom’s and _looks_.

Tom is beautiful to the point of devastation. There’s only a sliver of light, outlining Tom’s features—like when Edward saw him in moonlight, reaching for the stars.

“Siren,” Edward says, and drowns himself in Tom’s kiss. He feels him twitch; his softened cock must be getting sensitive. Edward pokes at it with his cock in apology, and pulls back just long enough to ask, “May I fuck your thighs, please?”

“Yes, sir,” Tom says, full lips parting to a sigh. They work together to get his trousers down to his knees; he manages to still look dignified, somehow; so Edward must kiss him again, to show his adoration. He slides his prick under Tom’s stones, dragging the tip over his taint. Tom keeps his legs pressed close, providing Edward with a wonderful burrow; nothing compares to his tight hole, which Edward is eager to re-explore, but there’s intimacy in the hurry, the limitations of time and space. Edward cups his face again and kisses him, fucking his thighs with the slick Tom’s seed produced, as if even his cock is accomodating to a fault. Tom’s nose bumps against his cheek, and Edward can feel his smile against his lips.

“Your eyelashes tickle, sir,” Tom says, hoarse, and squeezes around Edward’s prick. Edward wants to apologise, but he’s distracted by Tom burying both hands into his hair, pulling him closer. As terrified as Edward was about appearing disheveled, now he desperately wants his hair to be ruffled and tousled: to walk through the deck as people whisper, _Thomas Jopson did that, the Lieutenant is his lover._ He moans, thrusting his cock deeper between Tom’s thighs, until it slides over his hole. Given the opportunity, he’ll fuck him full—stuff him with his cock so there’s no place left for anyone else—claim him with his seed—fuck him until he’s swimming in it—strip him naked and leave secret marks everywhere, to show he belongs to Edward, the same way Edward is his—his alone; his completely—like a husband at sea—

He spends helplessly.

Tom caresses his nape as Edward gives him spurt after spurt of his come, mumbling an apology about the mess.

“It’s quite all right, sir,” Tom whispers, caressing his hair. Edward feels absolved of every mishap he ever committed. He steps back, but doesn’t get far. Tom pulls him into an embrace swiftly, clinging to him; the gesture is unbearably sweet, even with their trousers pooling near their ankle and seed marking the both of them.

“I want to be with you again,” Edward mutters into his shoulder, wretched.

“You will be, sir,” Tom says, choked-off; he clears his throat and says again, “You will be.”

“Here,” Edward says, fumbling in his pocket for a historic handkerchief with his left hand; the right is presently occupied holding the love of his life.

* * *

“I don’t like the look of that ice,” Crozier says while they wait on deck for the boats to be prepared.

“Me neither, sir,” Edward replies.

Crozier arches an eyebrow. “Then stop grinning at it, will you?”

Edward bites his lips and glances at Tom for help; his features are always perfectly placid, so Edward only needs to mimic him—but no, he’s smiling too, and there’s colour in his cheeks.

“He won’t listen to reason,” Crozier complains. Edward would prefer if they didn’t discuss such matters publicly, but right now, he can’t find it in himself to mind. He can still smell Tom’s hair, and taste the parting kiss they shared before reverting back to lieutenant and steward from the divine creatures they’ve become in love.

“It’s too early to say anything,” Crozier goes on, “but we must be prepared for the worst.”

“What’s the worst case scenario here, sir?” Tom chimes in. He’s so brave. Edward would never dare ask questions like that. Crozier considers his answer and wipes at his forehead. Edward can’t believe he’s hot. Sure, Tom had bundled him up tightly in his coat, but it’s freezing.

“If that’s pack ice,” Crozier says, pointing far ahead, “then we are doomed. Our only chance for survival would be to sail East and go around King William Land—or Island, if I’m correct—and wait out the winter there.”

“That sounds lovely,” Edward says, then quickly amends. “Reasonable.”

Crozier looks him over. “I thought you were eager to be back home.”

Edward sneaks a glance at Tom. “Not particularly, no.”

Home is Tom now. Spending another winter with him sounds ideal; he’d keep him safe and warm. They’d sneak down into the hold, or visit _Erebus_. They are not alone: there’s a society of men to support them and guard their secret.

“We only need to convince our leader,” Crozier sighs. Tom answers with a conspiring chuckle.

“You should talk to Commander Fitzjames first, sir,” Edward advises. “Sir John would listen to him, surely.”

“That fop is of no use,” Crozier scoffs, but a flush spreads over his cheeks.

“I find him rather...open-minded,” Edward suggests.

“You go talk to him, then.”

“Joyfully, sir.”

“May I suggest,” Tom speaks again, “that a restock could be needed? If we are to winter here, we might want to sail to Fury Beach and see if the wreck of _Victory_ has any salvageable supplies.”

“Smart,” Crozier remarks.

“You’re brilliant, Mr. Jopson,” Edward adds warmly.

Crozier mumbles something he can’t make out. The boat is ready: the captain descends the ladder. Edward follows: Tom offers him his hand, and gives him a secret smile, wide and bright. Below them is open water; ahead of them, love and adventure; and for the first time in his life, Edward feels fearless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to [@ktula](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ktula) for the beta reading and cheerleading; if you're hungry for more Joplittle, check out their works!
> 
> Please consider a [reblog](https://longstoryshortikilledhim.tumblr.com/post/638579847063650304/the-strangers-we-keep-forautumniam-the) / [retweet](https://twitter.com/forautumniam/status/1335279172936232960) if you enjoyed the story 💗


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